The Freak's Theory
by Izwick
Summary: In a futuristic London, John Watson is adrift in an aimless life. And then he meets a mysterious man named Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly, John is thrust into a world of murder, madmen, and Freaks. Though he enjoys the danger, the question remains: can he trust Sherlock? AU, no slash.
1. Chapter 1

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer: The characters of this story do not belong to me, much as I wish it were so. They are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC.**_

CHAPTER 1

Underneath a night sky speckled with cold, distant stars, the multitudinous people of London scurried about like so many ants unaware of a scientist's scrutiny. All ethnicities, all religions, and all classes had taken refuge in the great metropolis during the Crisis, and now that those times were over, the masses had converted into a semi-cohesive whole that together attempted to build a new world from the ashes of the old. In part, it seemed as though they had succeeded. Glittering towers pierced the clouded skies, newly paved and expanded streets provided space for the innovative and reliable transportations, and beneficial mods were made available for the common people, so that only the fanatical Purebloods remained merely human.

But to the quiet man on the park bench, the whole city seemed empty. For two hours now he had sat and watched people striding through the park, packages in hand often as not, intent expressions on their faces. He had observed the strange silvery contraptions called Glids as they slid down the streets with their drivers wearing expressions of mingled terror and glee.

And though the noises were loud, and the colors bright, still the world seemed to be but a half-remembered dream, after the horrors of the war. Why then had he even bothered to come back to London? It was an expensive place to live, and his sister had warned against it. His friends of old had moved on with their lives, and even if he tried to re-contact them, they were sure to find nothing in common anymore. Perhaps the real reason he returned was that, secretly, he had hoped to lose himself in the chaos of the city, forget all that happened in the war, and, somehow, forge a new person of himself.

The Civilian mod he had received only a few days ago had helped with that, he supposed; his eyesight had almost returned to its normal acuity, along with his hearing. The implants designed to increase strength and stamina had been removed or lessened. Even some of his fundamental code had been rewritten so that his instincts would now be that of a Civilian rather than that of a Soldier. But the knowledge of who he was and what he had gone through remained firmly in his mind.

Captain John H. Watson, of the 22nd Northumberland Fusiliers, Soldier and Angel Assistant. That had been his identity for almost twenty years, and he had never anticipated that changing. Then, suddenly, he had been injured, badly, and the recovery hadn't gone well, and he had been honorably discharged, before he even had time to process what was happening.

Ella, the Angel Ministering who was trying to help him adjust to Civilian life, had told him that perhaps once he had settled down, he should look into returning to the more medical side of his training. While it was unlikely that the Powers that Be would ever issue him a full Angel Proper mod, Angel Assistants could certainly receive part-time work at a clinic somewhere. It would help him settle down.

But John did not see that happening. He had to find somewhere to stay before he could even start to think about a job at a clinic, and at the rate he was going, it would be months before he ever found a flat cheap enough. Perhaps he should go and restart the hunt now… but lethargy had set in with a force, and John just sat staring at the faint cracks in the sidewalk, while the moon slowly rose above the towers of New London.

"Stop that man!" Someone called out loudly in a deep voice, and John looked up, startled out of his reverie to see a man with glowing eyes running through the gloom, being pursued by various officials and a tall man whose long black coat flew out behind him as though he were a bird of prey. John did not even hesitate. The removal of his Soldier mod was supposed to largely deal away with his fighting instincts, but eventually even genetically altered instincts become habits too engrained in one's soul to be erased. Adrenaline roaring in his ears, John leapt up, and barreled into the oncoming fugitive, ramming his shoulder straight into the man's chest.

Snarling as he fell to the sidewalk, the fugitive's eyes flashed silver and a sudden band of pain tightened about John's forehead, and the former captain stumbled to his knees and tried to shake it off. The fugitive was a Freak, then. Automatically reassessing the situation, John realized he would have to incapacitate the man before the man could incapacitate him. Quick as a flash, he slammed an elbow into the man's face and was rewarded with the shattering of bone and a sharp squealing of agony. Then, as the pain about his temples slackened, John punched the fugitive on both sides of the head until the man's eyes rolled back into his head, their glow extinguished, and his stiff body slumped against the ground.

"Well done," intoned the same, deep voice from earlier, and John, glancing up from the unconscious fugitive, was not surprised to see the tall, crow-like man looming over him, studying him intently. "Kabul or Baghdad?"

Mouth open, John was just about ask the stranger what the _bloody_ hell he'd meant by that, when the other pursuers finally caught up, panting. All three of them were wearing the dark clothing which, coupled with a badge depicting the wings of an eagle, marked them as Angels Vengeful, the police force of London. The one with silvery hair, who appeared to be the leader of the group, was inspecting the little scene with something approaching resignation, while the other two simply looked annoyed.

"You know, Sherlock, when you said you wanted to show us something at the park, I was expecting, I don't know, a nice little murder or something," said the leader, an A.D.I. according to his badge, with a weary shake of his head. "Instead, we find you chasing a Freak serial killer all over the park, with absolutely nothing to serve as a weapon…and then some random guy takes him out singlehandedly? Who the hell is this guy?" Demanded the Detective Inspector, looking at John suspiciously, as he struggled to his feet.

Again, John opened his mouth to explain himself, but the tall stranger cut him off smoothly. "This is Dr. John Watson, an old friend. I asked him to wait here in advance, should we be proven incapable of capturing the suspect-"

"Nonsense," interrupted a curly-haired sergeant, scornfully. "Freak here hasn't got any friends. He's lying."

Licking his lips a bit nervously, caught between the stares of the police and the stranger, John finally stammered: "Um, well, we're more colleagues actually…"

The man in the black coat stared at him for a second, then turned back to the Inspector. "Yes. Colleagues. Now, Lestrade, shall we take the suspect in?"

Lestrade sighed, then reached for his mobile. "All right. But I'm calling two cabs; one for the prisoner, and one for you two. According to protocol, we have to take your statements when you take an active part in the arrest of a criminal – even if that part is beating the suspect to a bloody pulp…" The Inspector's voice trailed off with a note of awe as he looked over the body, and John smiled awkwardly, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

The duration of the ride to the station was conducted in almost total silence. In the back seat of the Glid, the tall stranger, whose name, apparently, was Sherlock, sat motionless, pale hands steepled under his chin, cold eyes lidded. Beside him, John was burning up with questions and doubts, but the demeanor of his companion obviously demanded quiet, and John was reluctant to disturb him. So instead John stared at the passing buildings, and how the squares of light from the windows marked a sharp contrast to the shadows of rising night, as the Glid flew along. It was the first time he had ridden in one of the floating cars, with their sliver, folding wings, and he tried to enjoy the novelty. But in the back of his head, he could not help but replay those moments when he had taken down the suspect. He was a Civilian now. Such fights were no longer a part of his existence. And yet it had felt so _natural_…

Upon arrival at the station, John and Sherlock were marched through a myriad of revolving doors before being brought to a small room with two chairs and a table, where they were handed two tablets and DigiPens. Sherlock took his without question, and settling himself on a chair after first rearranging his coat, he began to write quickly and without pause. John took his a little more hesitantly, and sat staring into space a little, while a guard came to watch over their progress.

Obviously this strange man, this Sherlock, expected John to lie for him again, and all for…what, exactly? Who was this man with the odd name, and why was he helping the Angels Vengeful? Deciding that once this was all over, he and Sherlock were going to have a little chat, John wrote a brief summary of the night's events, explaining that Sherlock had asked him to wait at the park bench and keep an eye out just in case back up was required, and that when he had seen the Freak running away, he had not hesitated to intervene.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock finished his statement long before John, and, having submitted it, he came to watch over John's shoulder, reviewing it without comment. Once John had finished, and had hit Enter to submit the statement to the station's database, Sherlock said peremptorily: "Come on, then, let's go."

"Is-is that it, then?" Asked John of the guard, while Sherlock strode out majestically. "Can we go?" The guard nodded, and John scurried out to catch up with the long-legged man who was walking through the station as though it belonged to him, completely ignoring any and all querying glances sent his way.

As soon as they stepped through the station doors, into the cool and quiet night, John released a pent-up breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The stuffy station, with its reek of official business and strict protocol had reminded him forcibly of times he would rather forget. Turning to ask Sherlock a few questions, John saw that the man in the black coat was beginning to walk off, shoulders hunched.

"Hey! Wait, I've got a question for you!"

Sherlock stopped, straightened his shoulders, and said nothing in a most eloquent manner. Taking this as the only invitation he would ever get, John plunged ahead. "Um, who exactly are you? And how the hell did you know who I was?"

Sighing, the tall man turned around, his silhouette illuminated by golden light cast by a street lamp nearby. "That was two questions. However, I will answer both, because, after all, you did assist in the capture of the criminal. To the first, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a Consulting Detective, which is to say that I provide answers to the questions the police invariably have. As to the second, it was obvious."

John nodded cautiously. He had never heard of a consulting detective, but that did not mean such a thing did not exist. "Okay. Tell me why it was obvious."

Sherlock's eyes lit up, as if he would like nothing better than to do just that, and he then launched into an eager explanation: "Leaping at the fugitive the way you did was not the action of either a Civilian, an Angel Proper, an Angel Official, or an Engineer, which leaves us with Angel Vengeful or Soldier. However, only Soldiers are trained to incapacitate their opponents with the methods you used. So, Soldier, then. And yet, you are not in uniform, which suggests either that you are off-duty, or honorably discharged. I say honorably discharged, because the slight shrinking of the pupils and the small scars behind your ears indicate that you recently underwent mod surgery, most likely switching you from Soldier to Civilian. And, judging by your proficiency at fighting, you were a participant in direct combat, which means you have been somewhere in the Middle East. Hence my question, Kabul or Baghdad.

"But why did I address you as Dr., then, as opposed to a military rank? After you took out the fugitive, you instinctively reached out to take the man's pulse, an action that you likely did not even notice yourself performing. That suggests that you have medical training, and, while clearly not a practicing Angel Proper, that at least awards you a title of Doctor. Also, I thought it wise to address you as Doctor because it is a title that generally reassures people, and you will agree with me that it was a situation that required reassurance. And your name? I could see J. Watson sewn onto the inside of your collar. John is the most common name beginning with J, so that seemed like the best option."

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock stopped his summation abruptly, and glanced at John sideways, as if to ascertain his reaction. Chuckling a little, John shook his head in amazement. "That was…fantastic! I have never heard anyone do anything like that before, and you were right about everything – well, I'm not really a doctor, but like you said, that did seem to calm them down. And it was Kabul, I was posted in Kabul. But really-wow, that was just incredible."

The Consulting Detective looked a little taken aback. "Oh. A compliment. Normally people just call me "Freak" and leave it at that. Anyway, it's getting late, I should go summon a cab. Wait here."

And turning on his heel with a flare of his coat, Sherlock darted out into the middle of the road, one hand raised imperiously as though to summon a loyal subject, leaving John to dissect everything he had said. It was astonishing how much he had deduced about a complete stranger…but what sort of person had the skill to do that? Consulting Detective was not an existent mod that much John knew, but with that sort of skill, Sherlock Holmes had to be one of the rare Geniuses…or a Freak. _Some _Freaks did live under the law, after all.

He was such a strange-looking man, too, with his white, harsh features that resembled a death head, the floppy hair, and the cold, blue-green eyes. Tall, and thin as a rail, dressed all in black but for his white, tailored shirt, and blue scarf, he reminded John of a sort of odd, humorless Jester of Death.

Although his initial questions had been answered in a thorough manner, more queries fluttered about in John's head like persistent moths beating against glass. Who was that man they had been chasing? What gave Sherlock the license to assist the police? But in all likelihood, he would never see the strange man again, and John's life would fade back to the dull existence it seemed doomed to follow, so what was the point in even asking?

"Are you coming?" Called out Sherlock, in his deep voice, and John was startled out of his reverie to see that the Consulting Detective had somehow found a cab at this time of night, and was holding the door open for him. "Oh. Right, um, yeah," said John, clambering into the seat awkwardly. "Might I ask where we are going, exactly?"

Sherlock threw him a sort of Why-are-you-even-bothering-to-ask-it-should-be-qui te-obvious look. It seemed to be a typical expression for him. "To my flat. You clearly need somewhere to stay, and Mrs. Hudson has been insisting I try to find a new flat-mate after the fiasco of the last one. The address" he added, to the expectantly waiting driver "Is 221B, Baker Street."

"I- how did you- Who is Mrs. Hudson?" John asked with considerable confusion, as the Glid began to zoom down darkened streets like a metallic ghost.

"My landlady" replied Sherlock, a little petulantly. "She says I have to someone to keep me in order, but she refuses to do so, because she's "Not my Housekeeper". But the last flat-mate she found for me kept throwing away all my specimens. And he had an annoying habit of telling me all about his day's work- as if I _cared_."

The idea of being this man's flat-mate was so unexpected that John had a hard time coming up with objections. "But- what about my things? And we don't really know each other…"

But Sherlock just waved a hand carelessly. "You will be fine without your collection of jumpers for a night or two. And as to not knowing each other, that is false. I know you are a medical Soldier-turned-civilian, who is struggling to adjust to a world he no longer recognizes. And you know that I am a Consulting Detective who has a persnickety landlady. No doubt if you were more observant, you would have deduced more about me, but as it is, I think we know enough to go on, don't you?"

All of his objections brushed aside, John could do nothing but nod in agreement. He _did_ need somewhere to stay, and the hotel was expensive. After all, he could always just leave if it didn't work out, couldn't he? And, though the first impression of his new flat-mate had certainly been odd, he couldn't be all that hard to live with, right?

_**A/N. So, I thought a dystopian Sherlock would be an interesting idea, and this is the result. I am not sure how many chapters there will be, but I am thinking somewhere around 10. Although there are definitely some similarities to the first episode, I do not intend this to be the same story told in different words. Also, if anyone is wondering why I said "Kabul or Bagdad", as opposed to "Afghanistan or Iraq", it is because in this future, countries are referred to by their capitol city, because during the Crisis, national identity was a very fluid thing. Anyway, please, please review. Even if it is just to tell me that this is terrible, please leave me a review! If you have any individual questions, please leave them there, and I will attempt to address them. Thank you.**_


	2. Chapter 2

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer: Much to my increasing dismay I do not own the characters portrayed herein. That pleasure belongs to BBC.**_

CHAPTER 2

_Somewhere far off a muffled explosion echoed in Captain Watson's ears, quickly followed by the sound of collapsing rubble. Beside him, in the shelter of the barricade, Corporal Threepwood shifted nervously, muttering under his breath. The stifling, dusty air of Kabul weighed oppressively on the Captain, causing a thin sheen of sweat to gleam on his forehead that he ignored along with the other distractions around him. All of his attention was fixed on the narrow scope of the LB Forrester rifle he cradled in his arms, the butt tucked under his chin. The innovative weapon was designed to fire explosive rounds across distances of 1,000 meters, and Captain Watson was waiting to take a shot that hopefully would pierce the chink in the armor of the enemy's fortified medical station._

_Breathing slowly and evenly, his finger resting on the trigger, everything ceased to exist for the captain, save the target in the scope. Ready…aim… Suddenly a swathe of blinding sunlight swept across Captain Watson's view, and he jerked back instinctively, as flashing white spots obscured his vision. "Ah, damn it…"_

"Damn the… the light…" John muttered vaguely, as he swam out of a troubled sleep. Blinking in the morning sunlight, John enjoyed for a moment the sensation of being in a nice comfortable bed, before he realized that he did not know where he was. The walls around him were patterned in a dark, complex paper, the narrow window by his bed was shaded by halfway drawn blinds, and the iron bed frame itself was decorated with swirly curlicues. Definitely not his hotel room.

"Interesting." Said a voice from the doorway, and sitting up wildly, John saw a tall man in a blue silk dressing gown leaning on the doorframe, watching him cynically. Sherlock Holmes. Of course. The sight of the strange man opened up any mental barriers, and memories of the events of last night came flooding back. The Freak…the Angels Vengeful…the offer to stay as Sherlock's flat-mate…and then the arrival at 221B Baker Street. A nice enough place (though some of the decorations were a little odd) John had thought, and Sherlock had shown him to the spare bedroom where he had promptly fallen asleep.

And now here he was, with Sherlock surveying him through narrowed eyes. Had he been watching his new flat-mate as he slept? "Good morning…" said John, yawning a little. "Um, did you…want something?"

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, like a curious cat. "Did you know that you have a very hesitant manner of speaking? A great deal of pauses and "Ums". Quite interesting. And I wanted to tell you that Lestrade sent me a message I thought you might be interested in. It concerns a body. Also, Mrs. Hudson made tea."

A twinge of curiosity thrilled through John, briefly, but then he firmly reminded himself that dead bodies, no matter how interesting, were no longer part of his life. And that was for the better. "Tea would be lovely. But – why did you think I'd be interested in a dead body?"

Eyes gleaming, Sherlock leaned forward excitedly. "Because, while the victim was obviously killed in a violent manner, Lestrade tells me that they cannot identify what sort of weapon was used. I thought that as a medical expert, you could help discover how the murder was performed. And you are obviously itching to see a little more excitement in your life. So, get dressed, and then we will leave."

With that, Sherlock strode of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and John couldn't help but notice that his dressing gown swirled out in a manner similar to his coat. Apparently the Consulting Detective had a penchant for dramatic exits and entrances. For a moment after he left John just sat in bed, blankets pooling around the too-large pajamas he had bothered from Sherlock, and he weighed the pros and cons. Pros: he would do something interesting. He would have contact with other people, like Ella wanted (even if one of those people was dead). And he would probably, along the way, have some of his questions regarding Sherlock and why he did what he did answered. Cons… Well, dead bodies, for one. That sort of thing was considered an unhealthy obsession. Also… there might be other bad stuff.

John sighed aloud, and threw off the bedclothes. His mind was made up; that last con had sounded ridiculous, even to him, and, really, it was time he did something a little more interesting in his life. So he dressed quickly, and headed out of his room in search of tea and murder. Also, jam, some jam would be nice.

London seemed a much brighter, more cheerful place to John, as he and Sherlock rode in a cab to the crime scene. Although the winter sunshine was thin and watery, everything about the city had an air of light and joy; the nameless people that before had seemed like faceless myrmidons in the employ of the implacable city, now looked friendly and approachable, and John found himself wondering, in a content manner, as to what sort of things they were doing, and how they spent their time.

Soon, however, his curiosity as to what exactly he had gotten himself into overpowered all his other pleasant thoughts, and he decided to ask the silent detective a few questions. "So…where are we headed, exactly?"

Sherlock, who appeared to be engaged in an intense scrutiny of the cabdriver's headrest, did not look up, but instead answered John's question somewhat absently. "38 Matlock Rd. The Angels Vengeful, after responding to an anonymous tip approximately two hours ago, discovered the body of a young woman located behind a pub. They think it is murder, but require some assistance in determining both the assailant and the method. As usual." He added, with a decidedly contemptuous air.

"Ah. I see" nodded John. "And, do the police, do they, um, normally come to you for help? Do they pay you, or do you just help them for fun?"

Actually looking up from the headrest, Sherlock, cast him a disparaging scowl. "I do not solve crimes for fun" he said, frostily "It is my _work_." But John just blinked, made some non-committal sound of agreement and resumed watching passersby. It seemed to him as though Sherlock definitely found some sort of pleasure in crime-solving.

A few minutes later, the cab pulled up at 38 Matlock Rd, and spat out its passengers, but not before demanding an exorbitant fee. Instinctually, John took stock of his surroundings. This area of the city was evidently one of the few that still bore traces of the days before the Crisis. The street was grimy, the sidewalk cracked, and the buildings were shoddy and run-down in appearance. One particular, squat building (The Rusty Bucket, Pub and Chips, its sign proclaimed), was surrounded by official Angel Glids, and cordoned off by yellow tape. A stressed-looking Lestrade was standing by the entrance to the pub, watching as various forensic technicians scuttled in and out.

Upon noting Sherlock's arrival, Lestrade's expression brightened considerably, and he walked over to hold up the tape for the two. "Ah, Sherlock, thanks for coming, my Supervisor is getting all in a tizzy about this one…wait, and what's he doing here?"

Sherlock ducked under the tape, while surveying the front of the pub skeptically. "This is a terrible place to murder someone. Quite unoriginal. John? Oh, he is a replacement for Anderson, who is impossible to work with. It's like…trying to waltz with a dinosaur. Impractical and futile. Now, where is the body?"

"But, um – oh, never mind. Come on" Said Lestrade, motioning John over. "Just don't touch anything. Other than the corpse, obviously." The Angel Vengeful handed them two pairs of disposable gloves, and then led through them through the pub, which, like the exterior suggested, was rather dirty, and out into a little cul-de-sac where the pub's garbage was heaped in overflowing bins. A team of blue-clad forensics stood over a sad, forlorn little heap that was easily identifiable as the victim.

Catching sight of the corpse, Sherlock bounded over to the scene eagerly, shouting: "All of you! Be gone! Especially _you_, Anderson." A brown-haired man, who had been kneeling over the body, looked up in annoyance. "Why is he here, Lestrade? Can't we-"

"Go." Said Lestrade, with a little shooing wave. And the forensic team, looking like little children who had just been told off by their mummy, filed off sulkily. Sherlock, who had already begun examining the body through narrow eyes, did not even notice their departure. Instead, he commanded John, who had been standing by the back door feeling decidedly out of place, to come inspect the corpse.

So, walking over to crouch above the victim, John began a quick summation of all the observable facts about the victim. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, slightly plump, with bleached blond hair, and a rictus of contorted agony marring her pale features. She was curled up in a semi-fetal position, and the only signs of violence were traces of dried blood leaking out of her ears. Frowning, John gently picked up her wrist, testing both the coldness and the rigidity of the corpse.

"Well, looks like she's been dead about four hours" said John, standing up and brushing off his knees. "And, honestly, this doesn't look like murder to me. The cause of death appears to be cranial bleeding, or rupture, even. And while that could be caused by a blow to the head, there are no marks on the skull. So…some sort of drug? I don't know of any with those results, but that doesn't mean there isn't one. But whatever it is, it would likely be self-administered."

But Lestrade just shook his head grimly, while Sherlock, ignoring everybody, began running his narrow fingers along the girl's face questioningly. "I am afraid it's not suicide, Dr. We found a note by the body, with one word written on it in red; Murder. Although why the culprit would want to point it out, I can't imagine…Well, Sherlock, any ideas?"

Straightening, the Detective took the deep breath preparatory to one of his long speeches. "Traces of oil residue on skin suggest an unusual amount of cosmetics, which are now only used in theatrical performances. However, almost all forms of acting have been banned, so this most likely marks her as a singer, probably at Covent Garden. This is supported by the fact that her clothes are clean and well kept, but neither new nor expensive. So, her career has so far not been terribly successful, but she wants to keep trying, so attempts to maintain a professional appearance. The best place to inflict the world with your amateur singing? Covent Garden. Additionally, judging by a lack of any of the slight scars connected with the procedures, she has never received any mods. However," added, Sherlock, reaching into the girl's jacket, and pulling out her wallet. "Her identity and profession are all contained within the iChip in her wallet, which you have undoubtedly already discovered. So you did not call me here to identify her, but rather to tell you whether it _was _murder, and if so, how was it done. As you mentioned to Dr. Watson, there was that mysterious note to suggest it was murder, but it was hardly conclusive. But, look what else I found."

Sherlock uncurled his long fingers to reveal three green dice nestled in his palm, and John's eyebrows lifted at the sight of the archaic objects. Dice were rarely seen these days; indeed, the only reason John was familiar with the sight of them was his gambling at several Old-world style casinos. Lestrade, however, did not look impressed at the sight of them at all.

"Yeah, Anderson found those, but left them in the pocket, because we didn't think they had any bearing on the case at all. They're just old dice; no one uses them anymore."

"Exactly," said Sherlock, a little smugly. "Nobody uses them anymore, so why would a girl who has no interest in sentiment, judging by the absence of jewelry, be carrying them in her pocket? That suggests that someone put them in her pocket, which in turn points to this being a case of murder. But no murderer would leave accidently leave something like this in his victim's pockets; that means it was left deliberately, as a sort of message. Now what do you suppose these dice could say to us?"

Flipping each die over, until they rested on 2, 5, and1, respectively, Sherlock jabbed a finger at the little dots that indicated the number. "See? These numbers in particular, 2, 5, and 1 have all been blacked in with a pen. That means that whoever placed them in the victim's pocket wished to draw our attention to these numbers. It must be a code of some sort…"

"Ah. Alright then. But…do you have any idea as to how she was killed?" Queried Lestrade, still looking at the dice a little askance.

Sherlock rolled his eyes ever so slightly, and closed his hand over the dice. "As Dr. Watson mentioned, the cause of death appears to be cranial rupture, but the autopsy will undoubtedly reveal mroe. Now, I am leaving, and I want you to send me all the information off her iChip, plus photographs of the body."

John thought Lestrade would demur at such a request, but to his surprise, the Inspector simply nodded, and then screwed up his eyes in concentration. All Angels Vengeful had a chip implanted in their heads that allowed them to communicate telepathically, and Lestrade was evidently sending a message to one of his officers. A few moments later he opened his tired, brown eyes, and turned to John. "Okay, you guys can go, we'll send you the information, and – thanks for the help."

Smiling politely, John wished the Inspector goodbye, but Sherlock had already vanished into the pub. _Those deductions were bloody amazing_, thought John as he scurried to catch up with the Consulting Detective. _Although, Lestrade probably already know that girl's identity… What's the significance of those dice, I wonder?_

Just as he was walking out of the pub, the mobile implanted in his right ear trilled softly, indicating a new call. "_Unknown caller_" said the mobile's cool, female voice. "_Receive, or ignore?_" John sighed, looking around for Sherlock. He seemed to have disappeared. "Receive" John assented, finally, as he ducked out from under the crime scene tape, and began walking down the road.

"Hello!" chirped a voice he did not recognize. "Is this Sherlock's new friend?"

"Um, who is this?" asked John, frowning. Who, besides Lestrade and Sherlock's landlady, could possibly know that he and the Consulting Detective were in any way associated? And how had this strange man even found his number in the first place? He'd only had it for about a week…

"Oh, just an interested party" replied the stranger, lightly. "But really, I am more interested in _you_ than in Sherlock's social life. Tell me, are you really "old friends" or did you just meet? Because if that's so, then you are an _interesting_ man! Do you normally place your trust in a man about whom you know nothing?"

Clouds had obscured the faint sunshine, darkening the day even though it was barely noon, and a trickle of apprehension was creeping into John's mind. Who the hell was this person?

"Look, I don't know who you are, or what you're driving at, but-"

The voice interrupted him, speaking in a lowered, mysterious tone. "_Don't you know he's a Freak?"_

Suddenly, before John could respond, a pair of sweaty hands clamped over his mouth, and he was pulled roughly into a musty alleyway,

"_Call Disconnected" _intoned the mobile's monotone. But no one paid it any attention.

_**A/N: Thanks for reading! I am trying to update this every week, so the next chapter should be up soon. By the way, if anyone is wondering, the LB Forrester rifle does not exist at this point in time; it was invented along with various other things for the sake of this story. And, not to sound desperate, but please review? I am not sure about my writing abilities, and would love some feed back. Live long and prosper!**_


	3. Chapter 3

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer:As I believe I already observed, these characters belong to the estimable BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

CHAPTER 3

Panicked instincts screamed in John's head as his assailant threw him against the brick wall of the alley. His cheek slammed against the hard brick, and, head ringing, he leant on the wall, dazed. But when he heard the heavy footfalls of the attacker moving to hit him again, his training kicked in. Sliding into a defensive crouch, knees bent, arms raised to both ward off and deliver blows, John hastily sized up his opponent. The snarling man in front of him was tall, perhaps 6'3, and easily 17 stone. A rank smell wafted off him, and his appearance was generally unkempt, as though he had been living on the streets. That did not mean he wasn't dangerous though.

So, when the assailant lunged at him, thick features twisted in anger, John was ready. He quickly ducked under the man's reach, and delivered a sharp jab to the kidneys. When the attacker staggered back in surprise as much as pain, John followed the blow with a fierce uppercut, which further shook his assailant. But the man recovered quickly, and came after John with a wild flurry of blows. While most missed their mark, one caught John right in the nose, and the former captain felt warm blood trickle down his face.

"Oh, now you've done it…" muttered John, anger rising in a flush. The man just laughed mockingly. "What, you mad, little man?" he sneered. "Not much of a Soldier you turned out to-" His words were suddenly choked off as John, unable to take his taunting any more, leapt at the attacker. Grabbing the man's neck and yanking hard to the left, before the man could react, John simultaneously kicked the inside of the assailant's right knee, and the man collapsed to the ground. In a fury, John delivered punch after punch to his now-dazed attacker, blood and spittle flying as his fists connected repeatedly with the soft flesh of the man's face and torso.

Finally, the man toppled over, a faint groan escaping his lips, and John straightened and wiped the blood from his nose. It was as he stood over the unconscious body that the realization of what had just happened hit him. He had an odd phone call with a perfect stranger, and then been attacked by _another_ perfect stranger whom he had proceeded to knock out. That was against the law. Registered Civilians were forbidden from indulging in any sort of violence, save for protective measures. And, unfortunately, no Angel Judicial would look at the man's bruises, and conclude that John had acted purely in defense.

Turning on his heel, John hurried out of the alley, and down the street, craning his neck to make sure no one had observed the scuffle. But aside from the police Glids further down, the street showed no sign of life. So John walked as fast as he could until he reached a busier street, where he hailed a cab. Ignoring the driver's questioning look at the blood staining his shirt and hands, John had to think for a moment before he recalled his new address.

"Um…221B, Baker Street…thanks." As the Glid swooshed off, John almost smiled to himself. This time yesterday he had never ridden in a Glid his entire life. Now, he had three times ridden in one of the machines with their near-terrifying speed. Yet he could not enjoy the sensation of it, for thoughts of his encounter with the scraggly assailant preoccupied his mind. Over and over he replayed the fight in his mind, analyzing each action as a soldier was trained to do. No doubt if he were as talented as that irritating Sherlock, John could have divined all there was to know about the stranger, but as it was…

Speaking of Sherlock, where the hell had he gone? One moment he was at the crime scene looking all cold and disdainful, and the next he had simply trotted off to heavens knows where _without_ even bothering to tell John. By the time the Glid pulled up outside his new home, John was fuming on the inside. A man he barely knew had dragged him off to view a _corpse_, with blood leaking out her ears, asked him for cause of death, and then, poof, he was gone, leaving John to be phoned by stalkers and attacked by hobos. And as he got out of the cab, paying the driver with the last of his money on the iCard, the leering words of the mysterious caller rang throughout his skull: "_Don't you know he's a Freak?"_

Freaks were not supposed to exist. They were aberrations of the natural and scientific order; mutations, genetic anomalies with unusual gifts. Even in this new world, where multiple advancements had been made on improving the human condition, sometimes children were born who did not fit in. It happened very rarely, and while some were simply killed at birth, others were not discovered until it would be illegal to put them down. Freaks were generally pretty easy to distinguish form other humans; in addition to an anomaly in their genetic make-up, they had usually physical abnormalities, like glowing eyes, or malformed hands.

But the real problem with Freaks was two-fold; they had strange powers, and they were impervious to the changes wrought by the mods. And any human who could not be put into their place within society was a menace to the delicate structure which must at all times be maintained. Plus, Freaks usually had a very slight grip on reality, and an insane Freak could wreak unspeakable damage on innocents. So when a Freak was born, there were two options; it could be registered as a Freak, and put in a special asylum where it would be no threat either to itself, or the outside world, or it could try and live a normal life as an unregistered Civilian. But if it were ever caught, it would be killed or put in a high-security prison for life.

Was it possible that Sherlock was an unregistered Freak? John wondered to himself, as the cab drove off down the street. Sherlock _was_ unlike any human he had ever met… but still, he had offered John a place to stay, which was quite decent of him. Maybe he wasn't so bad. But it was right then that John realized Sherlock had neglected to give him a key to the flat, and all charitable thoughts toward the Consulting Detective flew right out of his head.

Grumbling, John rang the doorbell, but without any hope that someone would answer. Rather to his surprise, the door slowly creaked open after a minute to reveal a pleasant, motherly old lady, whose flowered dress was liberally sprinkled with flour. For a moment John thought wildly that Sherlock had hired someone to do his baking, but then it occurred to him that this must be Mrs. Hudson, the landlady.

"Oh, _hello_, I thought I heard a ring. Now look, dearie, if you're asking for donations, I am afraid this is really the wrong place! I donate a bit to charity, but Sherlock can't be bothered with that sort of thing. He's a detective, you know." Said Mrs. Hudson, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"Oh, no, um, I'm actually his new flat-mate, John Watson. Did he, er, not mention me…?"

Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands in a curious gesture that was half-frustration and half-amusement. "Stars above, that's Sherlock for you!" She sighed, motioning for John to step inside. "Sharp enough to incriminate my husband, but forgets to tell me the simplest things! And honestly, sometimes he forgets to eat, or sleep, and I can't be worrying about him all the time, you know. _That's_ why I told him he simply must find a flat-mate! Not that I expect you to baby sit him, dearie, but as long as there's _someone_, don't you think? The _difference_ one person can make…"

The landlady prattled on happily while she opened the door of the flat for John, who was listening to her in a somewhat bemused fashion. She seemed nice enough, but also rather unflappable – well, she would have to be, to deal with that weirdo on a daily basis.

"All right, there you are dearie! I'll get a key card for you as soon as I put my mind to it…by the way, do you know when Sherlock will be back?"

John started violently. "He's not here? Oh, dammit. I thought for sure… do you, perhaps, have his number?" Mrs. Hudson gave it to him, and then whispered in a friendly aside: "You know, you might want to clean up a bit, you're a bit bloody. Ta!"

Looking down at his blood-stained shirt, John cursed under his breath, and then tried to call his absent flat-mate. After ringing noisily for a while, the phone went straight to voicemail. _"You have reached the mobile device of Sherlock Holmes" _recited the mechanical, female voice. _"Obviously, he does not want to talk to you; otherwise, he would have answered. If, however, you feel that whatever you have to say might contain anything of interest, by all means, please leave a message. Be warned, though, that if your message proves to be boring, it shall be deleted."_ On that happy note, the recording, ended with a beep.

"Yeah, nice voicemail, Sherlock" said John, irritated both at the recording, and at the fact that Sherlock hadn't answered. "Look, I don't know what you are playing at, but it's not funny to just leave your assistant at the crime scene! Where the hell are you? And this message is probably "Boring", but I expect an answer, okay?" With that, John terminated the call, and went to go clean up himself. All of his spare shirts were still at the hotel room, but he could at least wash his face and hands…

It was as he was trying to decide how to cover up the bloodstains on his shirt that his mobile pinged. _"Message from: Sherlock Holmes. Receive, or ignore?" _An instant message? Really? He couldn't just _call_? But he listened to the instant message, anyway.

"_Squeamish? SH"_

Squeamish. That's all he said. No explanation, no apology, nothing. And yet…what an intriguing question! How could John resist responding to that? So he told his mobile to take a message, a little reluctantly. "I was in a war, Sherlock, of course I'm not squeamish. Why do you ask? Message finished, send to Sherlock Holmes."

A reply came almost instantly. _"We are dissecting the body at the mortuary. Interested?"_ John laughed, bitterly. Yeah, like that answered his questions… "New message: Why do you want me there? Message finished, send to Sherlock Holmes."

"_New Message from: Sherlock Holmes. There are stupid people here, and Lestrade said overviewing dissections was not his division. The cab to bring you here will be at the flat in about five minutes. No need to respond."_

Oh goodie. Another cab ride. To a mortuary. At least he was no longer bored…

The mortuary was located in the basement of St. Bart's Hospital, a tall, narrow building built in the popular style known as Baroque Nuevo, which incorporated long glass panes and ornate carvings onto the façade. Inside, the hospital exuded an air of cool, impersonal competence, and John did not find it difficult to make his way to the mortuary, which was located in the basement. A helpful technician opened the wide, glass doors for him that led into the dissection room, a long, low room with white lighting, white walls, and silver cabinets.

In the center of the room was a dissection table upon which lay the corpse, and a group of three people clustered around it; Sherlock, the curly-haired sergeant from last night, and a young woman dressed in technician's robes. The crown of the corpse's head had been removed, John noted, and Sherlock was peering at the insides of her brain, but he looked up as John approached.

"Ah, John, impeccable timing. Molly here has just been explaining that while the cause of death – implosion of the blood vessels in the brain – is easily discernable, the actual method is still unclear." Sherlock gestured to the technician, who waved a little shyly. She seemed rather sweet and innocent to be working in a mortuary, with her girlish ponytail, and wide brown eyes.

Adopting the impersonal attitude that he always did when it came to grisly things, John bent over and took a look at the slimy, grey mess in the copse's skull. But while it apparently held significance to Sherlock, the brain just looked nasty to John.

"Now, this being the case, this murder just became much more interesting. Do you know why?" Asked Sherlock of the group before him, while pointing at the cadaver. The curly-haired sergeant, whose badge marked as being named Donovan responded with a smirk. "Yeah, because it means you're stumped."

Sherlock stared at her blankly, as though the concept of not knowing the answer had never occurred to him, and then turned away from her to face the others, obviously considering Donovan an unfit audience. "If the murder weapon cannot be determined by Molly, two possibilities arise. The first is that the weapon is a highly-advanced frequency device that would have the capability to burst blood veins. And while that could be likely in different cases, I find it hard to believe that such an advanced weapon would be used to kill a girl of no consequence to anyone. That leaves the second option, which is that she was killed by a Freak, which is supported by the fact that there is remarkably little blood in the cranium. And if, as I believe, that is so, why would a Freak, whose mental capacities are likely low, kill a girl without robbing her, and then leave a note saying that the crime was in fact a murder? I think is in indicative of an unknown character manipulating these events."

Blinking, John tried to process what Sherlock had just said, all the while wondering how anyone could rattle of a speech like that without pausing for breath. Molly, however appeared to be used to such speeches, for she took it stride. "So, um, what are you going to do now, Sherlock?" she asked, and even John, who was not as observant as Sherlock, could not help but notice the awed look on her face.

"Oh, nothing," said Sherlock, dismissively, as he tore off the plastic gloves he'd been wearing. "Other than wait, and listen to the tale of woe John is about to hurl at me. Coming?"

John started to nod, but then a thought occurred to him. Last night, the sergeant had referred to Sherlock as a Freak… "Er, I just need to talk with the sergeant for a moment…if she doesn't mind." He added, hastily, when he saw the look the sergeant threw at him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but, stalked off without objecting.

"I'll just leave you two alone, then" muttered Molly, collecting her clipboard, and moving off to catch up with Sherlock. Donovan watched her go, and as soon as the doors had closed behind the technician, she turned to John with her arms crossed.

"All right, then, what do you want? And be quick about it, because I have to take this report to Lestrade."

"Yeah, um… you're Sergeant Donovan, right? I'm John Watson." So saying, he held out his hand, but Donovan just looked away, sighing. "Can we get to the point?"

Slightly chagrined at her attitude, John launched into his question without any further pleasantries. "Last night, you called Sherlock a Freak. Why?"

Donovan shook her head. "Look. I'm not accusing him. But you have to agree, he's…not quite human. He has no regard for other people, no sympathy for the victims, death excites him, and he notices things about you that no one else could… In other days, he might have been called a psychopath. But those don't exist anymore. So now, he's a Freak."

But is he, actually?" John persisted. "Have you looked at his records? Even if he's not registered, you can still see what mods he's had."

"Well, I did try, back when Lestrade first started going to him for help, because I wanted to know who it was that we were dealing with. But when I tried to access them online, I just got a bypass note that told me those documents were off limits for anyone without government-granted access. And look, Freak or no, he's a strange man, and I think he could be a dangerous one. So I'd be careful around him, if I were you."

With that, Donovan spun on her heel, and marched out of the room, leaving John alone with a partially decapitated girl and a growing seed of doubt.

_**A/N: Firstly, many thanks I now extend to those who have followed and reviewed this humble effort; it is much appreciated, and do please continue. Secondly, as I am leaving for a five-day trip, I am uploading this chapter a little early. However, this means the next chapter shall be somewhat late, and for this I apologize. Finally, in response to SilentGuest's query, I created this world solely for the purpose of The Freak's Theory. While I think it sufficient for this story, I did not think it adequate for original fiction. Any thoughts? At any rate, once again I thank you, and may the wind always be at your back.**_


	4. Chapter 4

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer: Even by stealing I could not make these characters my own.**_

CHAPTER 4

Patience is a virtue, and while John was not perhaps known for being virtuous in all matters, patience was one that he strove to uphold. So on the cab ride, first to the hotel to finally pick up his things, and then on the way to the flat, John held his tongue, leaving Sherlock to his silent ruminations. It was not until they had entered the flat that John finally turned on his companion with anger barely held in check.

"Okay, Sherlock, it's time we had a little talk. I don't know what your past experiences with flat-mates have been, but you _seriously-_"

Sherlock cut him off, looking quizzical. "Why are you so upset? Is it because of the fight? Or are you mad that I called you to inspect a dissection that obviously meant nothing to you? And don't look surprised, I am not blind."

"No… I mean, that's part of it- but…" John cast about helplessly for the proper words to express himself to this man who seemed not to understand human actions. "Okay, here's the thing. You ask me to help you with this investigation, but then you leave me at the crime scene, don't fill me in on what's happening… So here's my question: do you want me to help you, or not? Because if you do, you have to trust me, and keep me informed. In the Army, if two men went on a mission, and they did not communicate what was going on, that mission would _fail_. Got it?"

The Consulting Detective actually looked taken aback, almost at a loss for words, but he quickly regained his sang-froid. "Very well. I will endeavor to keep you informed. I confess, before now I have never worked with a partner."

"Yeah, obviously." Muttered John, but he nonetheless felt somewhat cheered. This investigation was staring to take a hold of him, and he hadn't wanted to quit. "Well, since we are going to stay informed now, I had better tell you about the man attacked me."

Undoing his scarf and removing the coat, Sherlock threw himself on the couch with a sigh. "Boring. While the Civilian Beneficiary Act of '66 largely did away with most homeless people, muggers still exist. And it's not as though he did you any harm; just let it go."

Sitting himself down in the chair opposite Sherlock, John shook his head. "No, this was different, and you are going to listen, whether you like it or not" said John, ignoring Sherlock's groan. "First of all, the attack was preceded by a call from an unidentified man, who somehow knew that I had just become your flat-mate. And then, though the man was clearly homeless, or at least not very bright, he somehow knew that I had been a Soldier. I don't think this was a random mugging, Sherlock; I think the whole was planned, including the phone call."

The last bit did seem to give Sherlock pause for thought, for his white brow crinkled momentarily, but then it smoothed again. "Interesting, granted, but for now, I do not see how it has bearing on the case."

Just then, Sherlock's Messenger, which was sitting on the table surrounded by odd paraphernalia, dinged, as it began printing off sheets of paper. Sherlock, who before had looked the very picture of indolence, now leapt off the couch, looking like a puppy who had sighted a squirrel.

"Ah-ha! Look, Lestrade has sent the information regarding the corpse!" Sherlock eagerly collected the sheaf of documents, and then spread them out on the coffee table, so that John could take a look.

After a minute of silent perusal, Sherlock apparently came to a conclusion. "S" he said, with certainty, as though he had just solved the whole thing.

"Hmm? What was that?" Queried John, looking up from the victim's birth records. "S!" Exclaimed Sherlock, stabbing the papers with a long finger. "That's the pattern here: the victim's name is Sarah Southy, which by itself is not conclusive, but then we see that her occupation is a Singer, and that she is 20 years of age, and the twentieth letter of the alphabet is "S". Now, the last point is this: take a look."

John took the proffered paper to see a picture of the corpse taken from above at the crime scene. Bearing in mind what Sherlock had said, the clue was obvious; the corpse was arranged to form the letter "S".

"Um, okay. But what does it mean?"

Rather to his surprise, Sherlock smiled in response, an honest, happy-looking smile. "It means this whole crime is a message- not just the note and the dice, the whole murder is meant to tell someone something… I just can't tell what quite yet. I must wait until we receive more data."

"Right" said John, beginning to collect the papers. "So, now what?" He glanced over at Sherlock, who was once more reclining full length on the couch, but his flat-mate did not respond. Rather, he stared glassily at the ceiling, his thoughts obviously a thousand miles away.

Well, that was all Sherlock was going to do for a while, clearly. So what was John to do? He could sign into the Entertainment chip, and watch cheap programs, but… Turning, John looked out of the window, and saw that the gloom of the morning and early afternoon had been burned away by a rather lovely sun, and the world actually looked somewhat inviting out there. Perhaps he'd go for a walk.

"Hey, Sherlock? Listen, I'm just going to go for a little walk, okay? I'll be back soon." In response, Sherlock mumbled a little, and John thought that was probably adequate for permission. So he grabbed his jacket, and scurried down the stairs to the front door.

The fresh air felt good after all those cab rides, and subconsciously, John began to relax a little, some of the tension easing in his shoulders. Some soreness remained from the fight earlier, but John was trained in taking his mind off such things. Now, as he walked, he noted the prosperity of the city. How clean, and rich, and _decent _everything seemed… funny to think that murder still existed in a world like this, a world that supposedly had done away with all the problems of society.

And speaking of problems within society, John really needed to find a job; after all, he couldn't expect to rely on Sherlock indefinitely. With that in mind, he began to cast an eye out for any shops with Assistant Needed signs in the window, because, though Shop Assistant not a well-paying job, it required few qualifications, and it would help to tide him over until he found something better. But few signs were in the windows, and the two that were both happened to be in a lingerie shop. Also, more and more AVRs (Automated Vending Retails) were popping up, and with their automated doors that would not let people leave until they had put the proper amount into the till, they had no need for a clerk.

Eventually, John tired of the glass, and the concrete, and the ornate details of looming facades, and decided to walk to the same park he had visited last night, and relax in the quietness that the small piece of Nature provided. So, after walking down many a gradually darkening street, he finally arrived at the same bench where –was it really last night? - He had first met Sherlock.

Sitting down with a sigh of relief, for the walk had been a long one, John was surprised to hear a voice above him.

"Mind if I join you?" Looking up with a sense of Deja-vu, John saw a man in his middle-to-late thirties with a pleasant, lazy smile standing next to the park bench.

"Not at all."

"Thanks. I'm James Murtagh, by the way." The stranger remarked, holding out a six-fingered hand, the typical indication of an Engineer. He was well, but simply dressed in clean clothes, and his hair and eyes were brown; all in all he looked the picture of a nice, friendly Engineer.

John shook his hand firmly, pleased to be meeting someone who seemed a little less strange in this city of nameless people. "And I'm John Watson. Just out for a stroll?" James shook his head a little ruefully. "Ah, not really. Simply a bit bored, that's all." He drawled, crossing his legs out in front of him. "You?"

"Well, started as a stroll, but it turned into more of a search for work, really. I just, um, just got out of the Army, and it's… different here now."

James nodded. "The world's a changing place, Mr. Watson" he said, softly. "Here we live in this great big city, so full of structure and order. But it can't last, you know. Everything's constantly shifting, and new orders arise from the ashes of the last. Makes you think, doesn't it?"

"I…suppose" assented John, cautiously, not really sure where James was taking this conversation. "But don't you like the way things are?"

Smiling, James turned his to look John, and he lowered his voice. "Of course. But I have this theory, see, that the world is so close to breaking out of its old pattern, and when it does, who know what will be left? However, that's just the thoughts of a man who has too much time on his hands! Tell me, how long have you been a Civilian?"

After that, the conversation became general, and their twisting strands of words eventually evolved into a discussion of life in the city, and John, laughingly, brought up the subject of his new flat-mate. "Yeah, he's a funny bloke. You ever have a flat-mate? Well, I can tell you, only a day of sharing the flat with him, and I already know… this is the strangest experience I have ever had in my life. But, it's good, you know? I wasn't sure at first, but…it's good to have company again."

For a moment James said nothing, but rather stared out at the setting sun, a half smile curling his lips. Then he remarked, somewhat cryptically: "You can tell a lot about a man by the company he keeps. Well, at any rate, I'd better be off…things to do…"

"Oh, yeah, of course" said John hastily, rising to shake the stranger's hand goodbye. "Nice, meeting you! Perhaps I'll run into you again?"

"Not likely. The city's an awful large place." With that and a lazy smile, Mr. James Murtagh tuned on his heel, and began walking away, the sun slanting through the branches casting crooked shadows on his retreating figure.

Sitting himself back down on the bench, John huffed a small sigh. It had been nice, to have a more normal conversation with someone. And yet, something had a little off, somehow. Something about the man had seemed almost familiar…

Dismissing the thought as negligible, John rose from the bench, stretched, and seeing the streetlights automatically turn on to flood the growing darkness, he decided it was probably time to return to the flat.

While the walk to 221B took him down primarily, clean, friendly streets, with the illumination of the lamplight conquering the gloom, John nonetheless could not shake off a tingly feeling of apprehension, as though every shadow hid a mysterious lurker whose eyes followed his steps unceasingly. Though he dismissed this as paranoia due to the attack earlier that day, John was still relieved when he arrived at the flat, and let himself in with the card key Sherlock had finally given him.

Upon entering the quiet flat, John was rather surprised to find that Sherlock was lying in the exact same position he had been nearly three hours ago. His long limbs were stretched out on the couch, his eyes were narrowed, and he did not even seem to notice John's entrance. Evidently Sherlock had moved at some point, however, because all the lights had been turned off in the flat, and the room was lit only by the glow of a single candle on a corner table, which seemed like an odd, old-fashioned touch to John.

"Um, hello? Sherlock?" Receiving no response from the seemingly comatose detective, John crossed over and blew out the candle, just in case Sherlock might somehow burn down the building in the middle of the night. "Look, I'm going to bed now, all right?"

At that, Sherlock actually stirred, blinking a little. "Mrs. Hudson made tea for you, and she wants you to drink it. It is on the counter." Sherlock said, his deep voice sounding as though he were speaking from very far away.

"Oh. All right then." Making his way to the kitchen, and stumbling over a large telescope contraption, John found a pot of tea on the counter, as Sherlock had said. He poured himself a cup, and, tasting it, grimaced. It was lukewarm, and had a strange aftertaste. Still, it was nice of Mrs. Hudson. Though he expected no response, John nevertheless bid Sherlock goodnight, and made his way to his room, where, after preparing for bed, he soon fell into a deep sleep.

_The sun had vanished. No, rather as it was though the sun never had existed, and instead the world drew its illumination from a pale silvery glow that seemed to lack a source. Looking to the sky, John saw massive, rolling clouds, painted in shades of black and grey, obscuring any promise that clear skies lay ahead. Bitterly cold wind rushed and swooshed implacably, and though John strained his ears, no sound could be heard save for its howling._

_Until, that it is, he heard the voice._

"_Behold the City," a deep voice thundered, but though it sounded as if it came from nearby, John knew that the voice was disembodied. At the command of the voice, John's consciousness suddenly spread upward and outward, so that he beheld the entirety of the sprawling city in all of its ordered lines and complicated patterns._

_That it was not London was certainly clear. The towering, narrow buildings were crafted from fantastic shards of grey glass whose razor edges seemed sharp enough to cut. The streets, clean-swept and empty, were arranged in rigid straight lines. On and on the streets ran, their intersections creating complex grids, yet no destination could be found. It was gigantic, the city, but so cold, so hard, so barren, and the dreaming captain's soul shrank in on itself to escape its harsh frigidity._

"_Awful, isn't it?" Turning, the captain saw that he was not alone in this horrible dreamscape. Another dreamer, marked by having a blank, featureless face, stood hands in pockets, surveying the cold towers with cheerfulness, although how such an expression could be seen on a man with no face is quite a mystery. "But look, it isn't so bad now, see?"_

_Following the line the strange dreamer's finger pointed out, the captain saw a small crack appear in the façade of one of the distant buildings. As he watched, the crack, widened, shattered, and green paint spilled out, staining the glass with its bright color. The crack with its outpouring of paint was soon followed by others. Canary yellow spiraled down the streets, vivid blue splattered across the walls, and deep crimson marred the sidewalk._

"_What is happening?" cried out the captain, delighted with the color. But, turning back to the dreamer, he was horrified to see that a black slash now scarred the man's blank face with a ghastly grin. _

"_Chaos is spreading." The monster responded, mockingly, and John saw that it true. The once cheery colors were now flooding the city, shattering the towers, destroying the streets, until the swirling pigments overwhelmed the city, and John drowned in their confusion._

_And then, suddenly, he was dreaming about walking through a garden of roses with his mum, talking about hedgehogs. It was quite pleasant, really…_

"Wake up!" shouted a deep voice in John's ear, and he jerked out of his pleasant sleep flailing about in the sheets. He looked about wildly, only to see Sherlock, fully dressed, standing over his bed, eyes gleaming manically.

"You've slept for seven hours, which is plenty, and you did not return to Kabul again in your dreams. So come on! _They've found the next victim."_ He whispered excitedly, but John just scowled at him.

"Sherlock, you can't just barge into people's rooms when they are sleeping, corpses or no corpses." Grumbled John, but his complaint fell on deaf ears, for Sherlock had already sailed out of the room, displaying the sort of excitement usually only seen in small children on Christmas morning.

John wondered if this was to become the usual; every morning he would wake to find an eager Sherlock in his room, ready to drag him off and inspect a corpse. Really, it was quite inconsiderate of the murderer to keep killing people right when all he wanted to do was savor his morning tea and toast. Although it was unlikely the murderer was planning his schedule just to annoy John.

Reluctantly rising, John prepared himself to face a new day filled once more with murders, blood, and annoying flat-mates. At least it could hardly get worse.

_**A/N: My apologies for the delay! But, as I have returned from my trip, the next chapter shall be posted in the typical manner. Now, to my mind, this chapter seems to be a wee bit slower than the others. But, I thought it necessary to have what you might call a "filler" chapter. Hopefully, it serves to move the story forward in a proper fashion. Any thoughts? And please review! Thank you kindly to all the readers, reviewers, and to those who favorited. I pray that the stars will always shine above you.**_


	5. Chapter 5

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer: Were I the proud possessor of the TARDIS, I would travel through time and space, and claim Mr. Holmes as my own. But I am not, so…**_

CHAPTER 5

Rain dripped relentlessly, splattering against the pavement, pooling about the stiff bodies of the two children. When Lestrade had told them that the corpses of two murdered children had been found on 38 Olney Str., John had been expecting a macabre scene. But the reality of it was so much worse than anticipated; a boy and a girl, only eight years old, their pale faces screwed up in an expression of fear and shock, with blood trailing out of the corners of their eyes. The rain had plastered their hair to their skulls, dampened their clothes, and mixed with the drying rivulets of blood to create crimson tears.

Lestrade stood above the bodies, arms folded, while Sherlock inspected them, but John stood a few feet away, against the wall of the damp alley the where the bodies had been discovered. A pit of revulsion was growing in his stomach. He had seen violence. Death. Corpses. Hell, he had killed men in combat himself, personally ended another's life. But these corpses were _children_. Young, innocent, and not in any way deserving of such a death.

Looking down at how the bodies were arranged, the boy lying on his left side, the girl on her right, both facing each other, with their arms outstretched, as thought they had tried to hold hands while they were dying, a spark of anger was lit inside John. What sort of person, Freak or no, would kill two children, and leave them lying in the rain, a white placard with dripping red letters spelling "murder" placed beside them?

Sherlock, in typical fashion, seemed little perturbed by the ghastly nature of the crime, as he peered curiously at the arrangement of the bodies, but Lestrade, who was shivering slightly in the rain, despite his trench coat, looked tired and faintly repulsed by the sight of the young victims. Evidently, this case was wearing on him, which was not surprising. The Angels Vengeful were well-regarded as some of the best detectives in the world, and it was seldom that their methods allowed for any criminal to escape.

"So, um, have they been identified yet?" John asked, moving over to Lestrade's side. The Detective Inspector shook his head, and made as if to say something, but Sherlock, while turning out the little girl's pockets, interrupted peremptorily.

"No, these children, like most of their ilk, do not carry iChips, and so that it makes it harder for people like Anderson to figure out who they are. However, that doesn't matter; I already know the three most important things this crime scene could tell me"

"Oh, really? Did you figure out the perpetrator?" queried Lestrade with just a little bit of hope gleaming in his eyes.

"I already told you" scowled Sherlock, pulling himself to his feet. "It was a Freak. And which one in particular is irrelevant, as this crime was definitely orchestrated by a superior intelligence. So, firstly, I was right about the different layers of messages; behold, I found these in the victims' pockets."

Where yesterday he had displayed some archaic dice, Sherlock now held a small, plastic figurine of a bushy-tailed, red-furred animal, which was once known as a fox. Although they were now largely extinct, John recognized the creature, and guessed that, taken in connection with the dice (for no one had any doubt the two crimes were related), the toy had some complex meaning.

"Secondly," continued Sherlock "If you will look at the shape the bodies thusly arranged you will say that together they form the letter "H", which follows as a continuation to the "S" victim yesterday. Thirdly, and most importantly, I know how we can catch the killer; we simply figure out which victim will be chosen next to further add to the message, and then catch him in the act."

Snorting, John shook his head. "Well, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out what one of the messages is, right Sherlock?"

But the Consulting Detective just looked at him blankly, as though John had just been prattling nonsense.

"Oh, come on," elaborated John, surprised that even Sherlock Holmes and his conceited mind hadn't thought of this one. "So the letter in connection with the first victim was "S", right? And you're thinking that the letter in connection with these two victims is "H". Now, what starts with "SH"? Your name does! And it's even your initials, too. I think this whole thing is a message for _you_, Sherlock."

Lestrade pursed his lips thoughtfully at the idea, but Sherlock reacted with skepticism. "Hardly likely" he scoffed. "Only those working with the Angels Vengeful would know that I would be brought in on such a case, and none of them have the planning skills necessary to construct such a wonderful crime. Not only are there all sorts of messages, but there are also no clues, other than the objects within the pockets, and the notecard, which, being of cheap material, was likely purchased from an AVR, and is therefore virtually untraceable. No, this is a crime of a brilliant person."

"Exactly!" said John. "This a crime committed by a brilliant person, and if he is truly brilliant, he could have figured out that you work for The Angels Vengeful, easy. Also, brilliance craves appreciation, so it makes sense he would orchestrate a crime designed for another brilliant person to solve."

At the implied compliment, Sherlock looked somewhat flattered, but he still seemed unwilling to entertain the possibility that the murders contained a message meant specifically for him. "Perhaps. And, if that is so, then we should begin looking for people whose names start with "E"" added Sherlock, a spark of interest growing in his minds. "Lestrade! Take us to the station, I need access to the computers. We have to sift through birth records to find any possible future victims."

John, pleased that Sherlock actually thought his idea might have some truth to it, stared at Lestrade with pleading eyes. A hunt like this might actually be fun, and, plus, they might be able to prevent more murders.

Sighing, Lestrade nodded, and shut his eyes briefly, presumably to send word to the men at the station that a manic detective and his sidekick would shortly be arriving, and then waved at John and Sherlock.

"Okay, I've alerted the station. Sergeant Donovan will meet you at the entrance, and she'll help you with using the computers. And…do try and be nice to her, Sherlock." Finished Lestrade, pleadingly.

""Nice" is for those too unimaginative to fill their lives with worthwhile pursuits. Come, John"

Following Sherlock out of the alley, John felt a boyish temptation to stick out his tongue at the Inspector, but looking back, he saw Lestrade standing over the corpses, head bowed, and water dripping off his upturned coat collar. He felt a pang of sympathy for the man; it must be difficult to face death on such a regular basis, especially when it involved the gruesome murder of children. All the more reason for John and Sherlock to figure out the plans of the killer.

Flagging down a cab in his usual dictatorial manner, Sherlock directed the cabbie to take them to the station with all due haste. It was as the Glid flew down the street, spraying water in its wake that a thought occurred to John.

"Say, um, Sherlock, how did you know I didn't dream of my time in Kabul last night? Were you watching me again in my sleep?"

"Only a little." Replied Sherlock, casually, staring out the window. "Just enough to ensure that the drugs worked."

"WHAT?!" screeched John, aghast. "You _drugged_ me? Was that what that strange taste in my tea was? I cannot _believe_ you would do this to me, and just after we settled how we were going to treat each other as flat-mates…you can't just drug people, Sherlock! No" John held up a hand, blocking Sherlock's attempt at explaining himself. "There can be no proper explanation for drugging your flat-mate, and I don't want to hear your excuses."

Sherlock studied the doctor detachedly for a moment, then made a small non-committal gesture as if to say "whatever". Beside him, John continued to fume all the rest of the way to the police station. Sherlock had drugged him. Put some sort of possible hallucinogenic in his tea, and then studied the aftereffects as though John were an experiment. Not for the first time, John wondered if all this had been a huge mistake, and maybe he would have been better off to remain at that park bench just a few days ago, and fall into the darkness of the city. All the way to the police he thought about this, anger building within, but as he was getting out of the cab, he heard Sherlock mutter behind him:

"It was only an attempt to lessen your nightmares."

John stopped, and swung around to look Sherlock in the eye. "Oh yeah? And why would you want to do that?"

A frozen look came over Sherlock's face as he replied coldly: "Anyone assisting me on a case must not be incapacitated by psychological stress. Someone suffering from crippling nightmares is of no help to me."

The words sounded harsh, uncaring, but as Sherlock began to walk up to the station's door, John thought he saw something in the detective's eye that might suggest otherwise. He didn't have time to think it over, though; no sooner had he and Sherlock walked through the doors then they were assaulted by a rather miffed-looking Donovan.

"I don't know why you need to access our computers, Freak. Can't you just use your supposedly great brain?" She mocked, as she logged them into the station's record book.

"Data, Sergeant Donovan, data. I cannot work with information I do not have. I need you to set up a Sifting Program in one of the research rooms now."

Rolling her eyes, Donovan led the two to the one of the programmable research rooms. After entering her passcode, and configuring instructions, on the keyboard outside the room, the door slid open with a hiss, to reveal a small room with grey, opaque walls, three of which were dominated by a glowing screen with the Angels Vengeful logo in the middle.

"Okay, here you are; the center screen will display the information, the left is for discards, and the right is for any information you want to keep and explore further. To work the-"

"I know this." Sherlock said imperiously, stretching out his hand to hand to Donovan. "Just give me the nodes, please."

Reaching into her pocket, Donovan pulled out a package which seemed to contain small circles of plastic. Sherlock, opening the package, put one of the "nodes" on each finger of his right and left hand. They molded to his flesh, emitting a pale blue glow, and the center screen began displaying black text that ran along the bottom edge.

_Fingerprints verified; Holmes, Sherlock. Access authorization level 24601. Please state intended search._

"I need to see the birth records of all London citizens born in the last five years." Said Sherlock in a commanding voice. At his voice, the center screen went black for a moment, and then an official birth records list appeared on the screen, displaying first and last names of all London citizens born five years ago.

Never having seen such a computer system being operated before, John watched fascinated as Sherlock began sorting the information with outstretched hands. Apparently the nodes acted as some sort of link between Sherlock's hand gestures and the words on the screen. Every time Sherlock flicked his left hand, the entry he had been pointing at on the center screen would vanish and then reappear on the left one. With a languid flick of his right hand, the list scrolled downwards, and Sherlock continued to sort the entries with an almost blinding rhythm and speed.

The names on the list washed over John like a tidal wave of stormy letters, and it was all he could do to pick even one name out of the thousands. Judging by the slightly glazed look on Donovan's face, she too was having a hard time keeping up with the speed of Sherlock's sorting. After a minute the sergeant gave up trying to watch the names appear and then be moved to the right or left screen, and instead watched Sherlock's pale eyes flickering back forth as he assimilated vast amounts of knowledge.

Finally, the list stopped scrolling, and then vanished from the center screen, along with all the discarded names on the left screen. With one last sweeping gesture, Sherlock transferred the remaining names from the right screen to the center one, and then let his hands fall limply to his side. In order to see the names more clearly, John took a step closer to Sherlock, and squinted at the screen. There were close to a hundred names there, perhaps more.

"Donovan!" called Sherlock, without taking his eyes off the records. "Contact Lestrade, and find out if the victims have been identified yet."

The sergeant opened her mouth to object, but John turned and glared at her. Perhaps Sherlock was odd (okay, he was _definitely_ odd), but the man was trying to solve multiple murders, and there was no reason for Donovan to be deliberately unhelpful. She returned the glare, but, with a sigh of resignation, squinted her eyes, and established a mental link.

Silence reigned supreme for a moment, and then Donovan opened her eyes with the same expression one might have when returning to the land of the living after a long sojourn in a distant dream world.

"Um, okay, the boy was Hugo Hardcastle, and the girl was Harriet Osmund. Why – "

"I also need to know their ages, where they lived, and where they went to school" interrupted Sherlock, still staring at the screen.

If looks could kill, Donovan would have been arrested for a double homicide, but she nonetheless closed her eyes, and, after a few minutes, begrudgingly gave them the requested information.

"Uhh… they were both eight years old…Hugo lived on Hanbury Rd., and attended St. Ninian's school…and Harriet lived on Moffat Lane, and attended Hargate preparatory school. Why is that important?"

Sherlock laughed, a low chuckle that was unexpected as it was genuine, and rubbed his hands together appreciatively. Up to that point, John had wondered if Sherlock was ever actually amused by anything, but apparently something had tickled the detective's funny bone.

"Ah, John this man is _brilliant_, absolutely brilliant. Well, not good enough to escape me, but, still… Do you see? The bodies were arranged to form the letter "H", and like the last victim, even their first and last name suggests the letter "H" – except for the "O" in Osmund. However, "H" is the eighth letter in the alphabet (which, incidentally, explains why eight year olds were chosen), and what is the sixteenth letter of the alphabet? "O", of course, so even the name Osmund is in keeping. And while their addresses and schools are different, at least one for each starts with an "H". Oh, this message was well thought indeed.

"And, yet," Sherlock added, cocking his head "This message is the tool of his own destruction. For, now that we know the methods involved, we can predict the victims in advance of the actual crime. Tell me, John, what do we look for now?"

John, properly realizing that this was a test of sorts, thought carefully. "Well, "E" is the…fifth letter of the alphabet? Fifth, yeah, so we're going to look for a five year old child whose names start either with an "E" or a…"J"? Since it's the tenth letter of the alphabet?" Asked John, feeling rather proud of himself. But if he was expected any sort of lauds from Sherlock, he was to be gravely disappointed.

"Yes," replied Sherlock "Such would be evident to any child old enough to know his ABC's. As you will see here" he continued, gesturing to the center screen, "I have selected the birth records of all five year old children with an "E" at the beginning of their first name, their last name, or both. Now, to narrow the field, we need to request street names and schools associated with these 104 possible victims. Does my clearance extend that far?"

Upon receiving a reluctant nod from Donovan, Sherlock demanded that the computer pull up address and schools associated with each child. Two minutes later, three names remained on the center screen.

_Elliot Emerson, age five, attends Eastwood Primary school. Emma Jaspers, age five, lives on Eaglefield Rd. Edmund Jellicoe, age five, attends Ethelridge Primary school._

Both John and Donovan stared at the names for a moment, silently, trying to imagine what sort of person would kill a five year old, just to send a message. Finally, John asked: "So, one of those three kids will be murdered, then?"

Sherlock shook his head emphatically, floppy curls bouncing. "No. All of them will."

_**A/N: There you have it, chapter five! Enjoy, and please, please do review, for I am caused great joy upon receiving them. Whether they be complaints, concerns, or suggestions, I care not, just review, please! Thank you, and may the past be the sound of your feet upon the ground.**_


	6. Chapter 6

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer: Does it need repeating? Steven Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle are very lucky men.**_

Chapter 6

A flurry of activity had erupted after Sherlock's dire pronouncement, beginning with a still skeptical Donovan contacting Lestrade, who quickly rushed over. They had stood in the computer room, staring at the harsh list of names, as Sherlock explained what was going to happen in a detached manner.

"But why all three of them?" was Lestrade's first question. "Isn't it possible that just one of them will be killed?"

Sherlock had just looked at Lestrade with that expression that said, oh-lord-what-fools-these-mortals-be.

"The letter "E" would need at least three bodies to properly form its shape." He explained. "I would have thought four would be better, but evidently he couldn't find a suitable fourth victim. So, three it is. Now, we need to move quickly. Judging by the rigor mortis of the bodies, the time of death was around four in the morning. However, since three people will be killed tonight, we will need to be in position by midnight. Since we cannot determine in what order they will be killed, squads will need to be placed at all three houses."

Nodding, Lestrade had simply accepted Sherlock's word as gospel, which somewhat surprised John. But evidently Lestrade was used to dealing with such startling news, and he flew into proper Inspector-mode, and began dashing about, flinging orders, and requisitioning men.

Three teams were assembled shortly, each with five men; three subordinate Angels Vengeful, one Enforcer, and one team captain chosen from the ranks of superior Angels Vengeful. Their mission was outlaid in simple terms; they would lie in wait for the murderer, likely a Freak, at the potential victim's house. One subordinate Angle Vengeful would hide on the street, and, via telepathic link, would report any suspicious activity; two others (namely the team captain and the Enforcer) would actually be in the potential victim's bedroom, prepared to deter any attacks. The remaining subordinate Angels Vengeful would be positioned in key entrances throughout the house, both to report and deter intruders.

It was a plan that John approved off. Seeing as all these men were well-trained and properly armed, he did not doubt that the murder would be caught. So why Sherlock wanted to be go with the team was beyond him.

"Sherlock!" hissed John, after the detective had demanded of a preoccupied looking Lestrade to accompany one of the teams. "You can't just – barrel in on a police mission! They can take it from here, and they certainly don't want civilians tagging along! It's… unorthodox.

But Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, and stared at him condescendingly out of his pale eyes. "I would have thought a mission of this sort would be something you would be particularly interested in. Perhaps it seems a little too dangerous for your tastes?' he asked, smoothly.

Huffing, John started to defend himself, saying that, no, he had done much more dangerous things than this, but then he realized what Sherlock was trying to do.

"You're just saying that to get me all riled up!" John said, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. His aggravating flat-mate returned the look with a glare, and the whole thing quickly devolved into a death-stare match. Lestrade looked a little worried at the sight of the short, but feisty doctor, and the tall, forbidding detective locked in a visual wrestling match.

"You can come with us, Sherlock." Sighed Lestrade, to break the tension, and Sherlock immediately smirked at John triumphantly. "But if Dr. Watson wants to stay behind, that would be fine."

"Er, no, um, I guess I'll go." Said John quickly, and Sherlock's smirk widened. "But only to make sure that Sherlock doesn't get in your way." He finished, and at that, Sherlock's smirk vanished.

So, now, here they were, standing underneath a yellow pool of lamplight on Eaglefield Rd., a few houses down from where Emma Jaspers lived with her mum, dad, and miniature poodle. Lestrade had driven them and the team over the Jasper's house about half-an-hour ago, after alerting them of their arrival.

Mr. and Mrs. Jaspers had looked scared, when they answered the door to greet the team, and let them take their positions. They were a nice-looking couple in their mid-thirties, he a Labourer, and she a Civilian. Their house was plain and well-kept, and it was obvious from the simple, tasteful decorations, and their overall demeanor that the thought of someone trying to kill their daughter had never occurred to them.

"I just- I don't understand!" sobbed Mrs. Jaspers, hugging a sleeping Emma in her arms. "Why would anyone want to kill our darling? We don't have any enemies, _she _certainly doesn't… what's going on?"

"There's nothing to worry about ma'am" Lestrade hastened to assure her, as they all stood around in the Jaspers' lavender-painted living room. "This is just-"

But Mr. Jaspers, a tall, big-eared man with a rapidly receding hairline, interrupted, scowling. "Oh, I think there is something to worry about! All of Emma's life everyone's loved her, just the sweetest little girl, and then you come here, and try and tell me that someone wants to kill her in her sleep! How would you know that, anyway? Most of you blokes got them Angel uniforms, but what about this chap here?"

Mr. Jaspers gestured to Sherlock, who was peering at the pictures on their mantelpiece intently. He looked shockingly out of place in the small, cheery room, and John couldn't for the life of him figure out why he was studying the pictures so rudely.

"You needn't worry" said Sherlock, mildly, as he straightened himself, and adjusted his scarf. "Your daughter won't die like your last child did."

Everyone gasped at this pronouncement, except for Mr. Jaspers who strode over and began screaming in Sherlock's face while stabbing a finger at his nose.

"How in the hell do you know that! How dare you say such things! Just- just get out of here right now, and _never _darken our doors again!"

Sherlock looked genuinely taken aback, as though he couldn't quite understand why this statement had caused Mr. Jaspers to erupt in such a furor. "But I-" he began, but Mr. Jaspers cut him off with a wordless yell, and made as if to punch Sherlock.

"Whoa, Mr. Jaspers!" said John, quickly inserting himself between the two, one furious, and one cold. "Look, I know that was likely, um, difficult to hear, but you have to understand, you're over-reacting here. Sherlock is a detective, he makes deductions, and in fact, he was the one who realized what was going to happen to your daughter, so-"

"I don't care! This man is barmy, and I don't think you lot should trust him. Now get out!" The man hissed, clearly not appeased by John's attempts. But before he could shoo them out into the street, he was stopped by his wife.

"Let them stay." She said, looking tired and resigned. "I won't take any chances where Emma is concerned, so do stop shouting, Roger. But, Mr. Holmes, I do think you owe us an explanation as to how you knew what happened to our other daughter."

His eyes lighting up, Sherlock happily delved into an explanation of his reasoning, while John groaned. Honestly, as if the detective needed encouragement.

"Mrs. Jaspers is clearly about three months pregnant in this engagement photo- and I can tell it's an engagement photo because the ring on her hand is not the same one she received on her wedding day. Notice the slight bulge in her stomach? Perhaps simply a bit of fat, you might say, but both the other pictures and her presence in the room right now will tell you that Mrs. Jaspers is a very slender lady. In addition, one hand is placed on the stomach almost protectively, a pose typical for pregnant mothers. So, why is it not possible that the child she is pregnant with in the picture is Emma?

"Take a look at the picture of the wedding party; the wedding appears to have taken place about a year after the engagement picture, which means the baby would be a couple of months old. And yet, there is a significant lack of any baby in this picture, which only make sense either if you didn't want your child in the wedding, or if she had died.

"However, based on the affection you show Emma, you would not be the type of person to not include your child in the wedding photo; thus I hypothesize that you suffered a miscarriage, which is further supported by the fact that none of the photos after your wedding show a child, until this picture with a newborn Emma. Am I right?" Sherlock asked smugly, and John wanted to hit him, too, when he saw the devastated look on Mrs. Jaspers face. But then Sherlock said something in an unexpectedly comforting manner.

"The loss of your first child was obviously difficult for you. This is why we want you us to trust us to protect Emma; so that you won't have to deal with that again."

Both Lestrade and John looked a little taken aback at such a sympathetic statement, until Sherlock added, in typical careless fashion; "If you don't let us protect her, Emma will die a horrible death; her brain will likely implode, and blood will leak out of one of her facial orifices."

"O_kay_" breathed John grabbing a hold of Sherlock's shoulder, and pulling him away. "Let's leave the team to get settled, while we wait outside, hm? Come on." Sherlock followed reluctantly, leaving behind a stricken Mrs. Jaspers, and a purple Mr. Jaspers.

Now they stood under the streetlight, rain dripping off John's upturned collar, and pooling at his feet. Sherlock was silent, giving John time to wonder, was this the way it would always be? In theory, he was here to help Sherlock with the case, but the more time passed, the more it seemed that his true role was to act as a buffer between the strangeness of Sherlock, and the real world.

Apologizing for Sherlock's manners, comforting those left in the wake of one of Sherlock's cruel speeches. That's what he had been had doing since the beginning of this case. And why should he do so for a man he barely knew? The more John thought about it, the more he realized how little he actually knew about Sherlock. That had to change.

"Um, Sherlock? So…do you have any family?" Sherlock looked up from his thoughts, startled. He obviously had not been expecting such a question. Truth be told, neither had John, really. It had just come out of the blue.

"Why do you ask?" queried Sherlock, with genuine puzzlement.

"Well, it just seems… er…" John stammered. "You know, we're just going to be waiting here for a while, so I thought – well I don't know much about you." He finished, rather weakly.

"I…see." Replied Sherlock, although he obviously really didn't. "Well, I have a brother…"

"Oh, really?" John asked with interest. The idea of there being another Holmes was actually both a little amusing and frightening. "What's he like?"

Sherlock looked away. "We do not see much of each other." He said, shortly.

"Oh. Well, um, do you have, I mean, is there, a- a partner? That is, do you have a romantic partner?"

Sighing, Sherlock turned to glare at John. "Look, John, these questions have absolutely no bearing on the case, so why ask them? I do not have a "Romantic partner" as you call it, but I fail to see how that matters!"

John stared at him for a moment, and seriously considered just walking away. What was it with this man? Why was he so rude and self-centered all the time?

But telling himself to think about it, he realized something he probably should a while ago. Sherlock wasn't so awful in social situations because he was rude; he was awful in social situations because his mind was simply different from other human beings. It was just like an Engineer trying to do a Constructor's work. It would simply never work, not because the Engineer lacked skill, but because his mind just wasn't wired to comprehend a Constructor's job.

Likewise, Sherlock, not being a normal human, could not be expected to act like one all the time. Still, John thought, casting a sideways glance at the strange man, that doesn't mean I can't teach him how to use a few manners.

So, plucking up his courage, he again set to badgering his new flat-mate. "Hey, Sherlock? Just so you know, bringing up a woman's miscarriage when her daughter is likely going to murdered is not good. At all. Also, _describing_ how their daughter might be killed, will earn you a punch in the face someday."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "He wouldn't have been the first one." He muttered sullenly. "People can be all…_emotional_ at times, and I fail to understand why. I was only trying to acquaint them with the facts."

"No, you weren't!" John corrected him. "They were already acquainted with the fact that they had lost a child. And you knew that they knew! So that was just you being a show-off, because you want appreciation. Now look, I've seen how good you are, and so has Lestrade, so why do you keep wanting to impress people with your brilliance?"

Now Sherlock looked really uncomfortable, and, after a moment of silence, he resorted to clearing his throat. "I- wanting to impress people implies that I would care about their opinion, and caring is not an advantage in this harsh world. Besides, why would I seek the admiration of fools?"

John said nothing, for he couldn't think of a response. But just for a second, he had seen the man's cold mask slip, and thought he had seen the face of someone desperate for something he claimed to loathe. So he wouldn't give up on Sherlock just yet. Perhaps, over time, he could chip away at the hardened paint of the mask, to reveal the color of the living man within. But not if Sherlock continued to drug his tea. John liked his cuppa, and having the niggling suspicion that there might be hallucinogenics added would completely ruin the taste.

Having decided that conversing with Sherlock at this time would most likely lead nowhere, John cast his gaze out on the sleeping neighborhood, and the streetlights that were obscured by soft sheets of falling rain. A funny place for a murder to happen. It was the quintessential "nice neighborhood" with pleasant houses, well-kept yards, and clean streets. Nothing out of the ordinary, not even another a living soul, save for themselves, and the Angel Vengeful hidden somewhere down the opposite end of the road, where it opened up onto a main street.

But wait… John, thinking he saw something out of the corner of his eye, swiveled his head a bit to the right, where he saw a faint silhouette approaching them through the rain. Nudging Sherlock, he whispered: "Hey, is that the Angel vengeful coming over here?"

At his side, Sherlock stiffened, as he craned his neck to see who was approaching. "No. It isn't. Come on." With that, Sherlock began walking towards the shadowy figure quickly, leaving John to wonder why, if it wasn't the Angel vengeful, Sherlock would want to go up to a complete stranger.

At the sight of the tall, spindly detective approaching, the figure stopped, directly under a glowing streetlight. The golden illumination cast away the confusion of darkness, and John saw that the figure was a young, scared looking man, with shaggy hair, and unkempt clothes. His eyes were opened wide, and John saw to his horror that they were blood red. A Freak.

For a moment they stared at each other, Detective and Freak, cold eyes against bloody ones, and then the Freak turned tail and fled down the sleeping street. Sherlock immediately set off chasing him, his long legs eating up the slippery sidewalk. And John didn't hesitate. True, it was a Freak they were chasing, and true, if it managed to injure Sherlock it would probably be richly deserved. But there was a murderer to catch, and there was no way Sherlock was going to claim all the glory of catching it himself.

John's heart thudded as his feet pounded through puddles of water, down the streets of the neighborhood. He was still quite fit from his stint in the military, and Sherlock, who was ahead of him by several yards, ran surprisingly fast for a man who spent so much time lounging on a couch. But the Freak flew on wings born of desperation, and it was all they could do to keep him in sight.

Turning a corner behind a brick wall, the Freak vanished altogether, until Sherlock quickly sprinted around the corner, disappearing from John's line of view. Only seconds later, a muffled grunt reached John's ears, and he too turned the corner of the wall, just in time to see Sherlock crumple to the cold ground.

And for a moment that stretched into endless eternities, John stared at the dark, glistening blood trickling out of Sherlock's nostrils, as the fragile world he had so recently become accustomed to collapsed and crumbled.

_**A/N: You know, as I was writing the last bit, I was struck suddenly by a sense of déjà vu – almost as though I had recently beheld a scene where John is stricken by the sight of Sherlock lying on the sidewalk, all bloody… *sobs*. At any rate, I apologize for the late upload of this chapter, but I just wasn't feeling terribly motivated. You know what would help with that? More reviews. Lots and lots of lovely reviews. But seriously, I would appreciate some more feedback on this story. So, may it be that a star will shine through your darkness. **_


	7. Chapter 7

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer: I own naught but the scrap of paper and shard of lead I use to scrawl this story out.**_

CHAPTER 7

Long ago, when in training camp preparatory to receiving the Soldier mod, John had been taught an important skill; the ability to block out certain fragments of reality, in order that others might be addressed properly.

Now, hearing the sound of the Freak's fleeing footsteps ringing throughout the night, John tried desperately to ignore the fact that Sherlock lay still and motionless at his feet. The Freak must be caught, regardless of Sherlock's condition, or else more murders might ensue.

So, quickly, John knelt down by the side of the motionless detective, and placed his hand on his flat-mate's neck. After a moment he located a weak but stable pulse, and with a sigh of relief, John hurriedly stood to his feet.

Anger building within him, John resumed the chase after the faint form of the fugitive Freak. This time, though the Freak had a head start, John quickly gained on him, fury-driven as his sprint was. Perhaps Sherlock was an annoying git, but how _dare_ the Freak attack him that way!

Casting a fearful glance over his shoulder to see a rapidly approaching John, the Freak attempted to redouble his efforts, but to no avail; with a cry, John launched himself at Sherlock's attacker, knocking him to the ground.

Rolling the Freak over before he had time to use whatever nasty little trick he used to kill people, John punched the scrawny whelp over and over and over in the face, 'til the bone of his nose shattered, and blood poured out of it as it had with his victims.

Mewling, the Freak begged for mercy in a rough, broken voice, and John felt the mists of his anger recede somewhat. Then for the first time he actually looked at the mess he had made of the Freak's face, and was somewhat horrified at the sight, partially because of how ruined the Freak's profile was going to be after this, and partially because it made him question: what was it about Sherlock that would cause a retired Soldier to beat someone, just because that someone had caused injury to the detective?

From far off, he heard the echoing cries of Lestrade calling to find out where they were, and John stood up, thought about wiping the blood off on his pants, then thought better of it.

"Okay, listen", he growled, leaning in close to the whimpering Freak. "The police are on their way, but I personally promise you, if you try and use your little trick on anyone else again, I will beat you to a bloody pulp. Is that clear?"

The Freak nodded, the tears rolling down his face mixing with blood and spittle. Just then, Lestrade, and the Enforcer came running over.

"What happened?" panted Lestrade, surveying the cringing Freak with amazement. "Where's Sherlock?"

John sighed, and gestured back the way he had come. "The Freak used his…trick on him, and I left him back there. He's not dead, though, just unconscious. He should be fine, but I should probably take him to a hospital…"

Lestrade, still staring at the Freak, who appeared to have slipped into a state of semi-consciousness, just shook his head. "No, I'll arrange for that. Since you've somehow managed to take down another Freak, I'm going to have to take you to the station and have you give a statement. We'll get Sherlock's statement as soon as I know he's okay."

John swallowed, disappointed, but stayed silent as Lestrade began arranging matters telepathically. The Enforcer had drawn a pair of telepathic stabilizer cuffs out of a pocket, and was now placing them on the Freak, while John stood awkwardly nearby, wondering if Sherlock would be alright.

Giving his statement was a bit different this time, as apparently he was actually in a bit of trouble. John was writing his statement in the same room where he and Sherlock had given their statements just a few nights ago, when a tall, flazen-haired Angel Vengeful strutted in. Judging by his badge he occupied a similar position to Lestrade, but unlike the Inspector, this man's furrowed eyebrows expressed a cross personality.

"Get out!" He snarled to the young officer who proctoring John while he wrote his statement. Startled, the officer scurried away leaving an apprehensive John alone in the room with a grumpy Inspector.

"Are you the Civilian that went after the Freak?" demanded the officer, crossing his arms, and scowling fiercely.

"Well, yes, I am! And who are you?" countered John, defensively, tablet and DigiPen still in hand. He wondered what on earth he had done now.

"Tobias Gregson, Detective Inspector," he responded shortly. "Not that it's any of your business. From now, I'm asking the questions, are we clear?"

John stared at him belligerently for a moment, and then asked: "Do you know how my friend is doing? The one the Freak attacked?"

Though he probably shouldn't have directly gone against a command like that, the question was totally worth it as he watched Gregson's face turn a most unlovely shade of purple.

"I said _I _will be asking the questions!" screamed Gregson, spittle flying, but John just shrugged his shoulders dispassionately. "Harrumph. Now then, tell me what you think gave you and the gawky amateur permission to chase after a Freak? The fact that you're an ex-soldier? 'Cause let me tell you, that won't lend you any weight with _me_. Lestrade may be lazy enough to let random people do his work for him, but I am not. Is that clear?! So I don't want to find you or your freaky friend messing with police work again, or else I'm going to have to have a little talk with The Superintendent!"

With that, Gregson flounced out of the room like a self-righteous fairy princess, leaving John with his mouth hanging open. Well, of all the nerve… But that little talk did reinforce one thing: he and Sherlock had to pull out of this case. It was simply getting too dangerous.

Finishing and entering his statement hurriedly, John quickly made his way out of the room. Worry for Sherlock, plus a twinge of guilt for abandoning him that way and meekly following Lestrade, was beginning to impinge on his self-enforced calm. Remembering the picture of a pale, bloodstained Sherlock laying on the ground, John began to walk a little faster.

It was as he was about to reach the front desk, that his phone pinged. _"Message from: Sherlock Holmes. Receive or ignore?" _It was with a sense of relief that John told the phone to receive the message. If Sherlock was sending messages, then he must be all right.

"_John. I need to you to find out what was in the Freak's Pockets. SH."_

Well, if that wasn't just typical. No, "Hello, John, how are you, I'm doing fine now, so need to worry. Oh, and thanks so much for capturing the Freak. Good job." Nope, just "Find out what's in the Freak's pockets." Well, that was fine, but John had had enough.

"New message: Not until you tell me if you are okay, Sherlock. Got that? Message finished, send to: Sherlock Holmes"

The answer came almost immediately, and, like John had expected, it was terse and to the point. _"I'm fine. Please find out what was in the Freak's pocket. SH."_

Feeling somewhat mollified by the "please", John trotted off to find Lestrade, wondering if he was acting too much like an obedient puppy dog. Lestrade seemed to think so; he eyed John with skepticism when the ex-Soldier brought him the request.

"Why would he want to know that? It can't be important… But, I'll humor him, seeing as he did prevent a few murders. Come along…" said Lestrade reluctantly, and he lead him away to a, long, low, dimly lit evidence room, where after sorting through some of the more recent files, he pulled out a small baggie.

"We're actually not quite sure what it's supposed to be" remarked Lestrade, as John took the evidence bag and inspected the small object within underneath one of the few glaring lights.

It appeared to be a child's crude facsimile of a typical house yard. A piece of green felt "grass", along with a white picket fence, was glued to a square of cardboard. But it appeared that the house had been torn off, for in the center of the "grass" was a patch of dried glue with a few shards of wood still stuck to it.

"New message" John told his phone, turning over the object curiously. "The only thing in the Freak's pocket was a- a square of cardboard with, um, some things glued to it to make it look like a house and its yard. Except the house bit itself seems to have been torn off. Ummm…is that all you wanted to know? Message finished, send to: Sherlock Holmes."

A minute passed as the two waited awkwardly for Sherlock's reply. And then Lestrade cleared his throat a little nervously. "Um, look, I'm sorry about Gregson. He- well, he and I have never exactly seen eye to eye, and- we're sort of rivals, I guess you could say. He wanted to be on this case, and is pretty ticked that we've caught the Freak. That is, that you and Sherlock caught the Freak… and, I suppose, technically, you really don't have the authority to run after murder suspects like that. But no one would have turned an eye if Gregson hadn't had a bone to pick with me. So, what I'm saying is, I really do appreciate what you and Sherlock have done for this case…"

John hastened to say that he quite understood, and Gregson was a slimy git, but before he had so much as opened his mouth, the mechanical, recorded voice on his phone interrupted. _"New message from: Sherlock Holmes. Receive or ignore?"_ John looked at Lestrade questioningly, and the Inspector waved his hand in permission, so John accepted the message.

"_Send two pictures of the object; one from the side, and one from the top. SH."_

Lestrade just laughed, tiredly. "You know, no matter how much I may respect that man, I will never understand his methods. And I have no idea how you can put up with him for so long. Working with him for more than an hour or two is enough to make anyone want to scream."

"Yeah… but at least it's never boring, right?" answered John, although as he said it, he realized it wasn't much of an answer. Perhaps because, at this point, he actually wasn't sure how he was going to put up with his new flat-mate. "So. Can you send some pictures to Sherlock? If you don't, he'll send me message after message complaining about how he can't solve crime without data."

"Yeah, okay. Technically, we're not supposed to release any photos of evidence, but you know what… screw that. Tonight, you and Sherlock prevented three children from being brutally murdered, so I think I can give you some lee-way. So just hold on, and once I've sent the pictures, you can head home."

Nodding gratefully, John exited the evidence room, and made his way back to the front desk, reflecting as he went how oddly familiar with the police station he had become in the last few days. After a few minutes of looking over some of the DigiPosters which flashed up different pictures of wanted criminals, John was told he could return home, and he left happily. It was now almost four in the morning, and he was exhausted.

He almost fell asleep twice during the cab ride back to the flat, and only managed to stagger up the stairs using his intense powers of concentration. But John woke up quickly enough when he realized that Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

At first, he just thought that the detective had gone to bed, and quite wisely, too. But, figuring he had better make sure Sherlock was actually all right, John had gone to knock on Sherlock's door, only to find it standing a crack open. John didn't want to intrude. Though it hadn't been discussed, he kind of had the impression that the room was Sherlock's Inner Sanctum, and should not be disturbed. So he only peeked in enough to see that Sherlock was most definitely not there.

Feeling a little worried now, John began searching the flat thoroughly, but to no avail; Sherlock seemed to have disappeared. He considered finding out from Mrs. Hudson where that idiot had run off to, but he didn't want to wake her. So he tried sending Sherlock a message, but after waiting for almost fifteen minutes, he realized that no response was forthcoming.

_Getting real tired of this s#&/, Sherlock…_ Now John was definitely worried. His flat-mate had been attacked by a Freak, and while John was sure the Angels Ministering wouldn't have released Sherlock if he was still in a bad way, John also knew that you shouldn't go wandering out in the dead of night right after someone tried to make your brains leak out your nose. Plus, there was the question of where Sherlock could have gone so late at night. Not getting groceries, or getting some fresh air, of that John was positive.

Scratching his head nervously, John strode into the sitting room, and, right as he was about to go down into the street, he caught sight of three objects laid out on the coffee-table. Curious, John went to take a look. There, all in a row, was the three dice, the fox, and the picture of the houseless yard that Lestrade had sent. All the objects, John realized, that had been left, or almost left, at the scenes of the crime. Right next to them was an A-Z directory book.

The last puzzled John a little. Directory books were archaic; nowadays, you could simply give an address to your mobile phone implant, and it would give you step by step instructions. So why would Sherlock leave one, in addition to the three objects, out on the table?

John sat down in front of the table and began thinking deeply. Three green dice, sides up to show 2, 5, and 1. A small plastic fox. And a tiny yard with the traces of a torn-away house foundation. Evidently these three things held some meaning to Sherlock, so surely John could find some meaning in them too.

Minutes passed as John stared at the objects. Three dice, reading 251. A fox. And a yard. _Wait a minute…_ John's head shot out of his folded arms. 251 Fox Yard. What if it was an address? What if, taken together, these three things pointed the way to a place where answers to this murderous riddle could be found?

Inspired, John grabbed for the directory, and flipped to the "F" section. Eagerly his eyes ran back and forth over the pages, until a certain entry stopped him. He almost couldn't believe it. There it was, Fox Yard Rd, in the far reaches of northern London.

And what was there, at 251 Fox Yard? Casting his mind back, John remembered that Sherlock had hinted at a superior intellect orchestrating the crimes. Perhaps, then, these three objects had been a final message; an invitation, of sorts, a call to a confrontation between the man clever enough to hide such messages, and the man clever enough to figure them out.

So that must be where Sherlock had gone; to face this man who orchestrated the murders. And there was no doubt in John's mind that Sherlock had set out the clues to the final message and the directory in order that John might follow behind him, if he was smart enough to figure out the message.

John smiled a little, as he rose from his seat, and quickly made his way to his room. How like Sherlock to, instead of simply leaving a note, leave a set of clues that would test John's deductive skills. It was a test, truly, to determine whether John could be a proper companion to the detective. And John decided, now, that he would commit to being Sherlock's companion. No longer would Sherlock solve crimes and face villains alone; now he would have a Soldier, a Doctor, and a _friend_ by his side.

_**A/N: Thank you once more to all those who reviewed and followed! Now, one reviewer pointed out that they still unclear as to some details regarding this AU, so, because I do not wish for any confusion, I am going to make a list explaining a few details. If you weren't confused, then ignore it, but if you would like some clarification, read on.**_

**Mod: Short for "modification", a mod is an operation, or series of operations that enhance certain mental and/or physical abilities. For example, the Soldier mod (which is received by anyone who enters the army) increases one's stamina, strength, and reaction timing, by altering certain muscular and physical structures. The mods are, in order of "rank":**

**Angels (Official, Judicial, Vengeful, and Ministering). The Angel mods are for those who wish to enter governmental, judiciary, regulatory, or medical roles. Angel Official mods are considered the highest, and reserved only for individuals who display exceptional intelligence and integrity.**

**Soldier (Soldier Proper, Soldier Naval, Soldier Airborne, and Soldier Supreme). The Soldier mods are for individuals who enter the Army, Navy, or Air Force. While the Angel mods mainly enhance mental abilities, Soldier mods primarily focus on enhancing the physique and the instincts.**

**Laborer (Engineer, Carpenter, and Laborer Proper). These mods mainly enhance physical attributes and skills.**

**Civilian (Designer, Performer, Assistant, and Civilian Proper). The most basic and cheapest mods, which are given to anyone not going for a specialized career. These provide the most simple of enhancements for physical and mental abilities.**

**Additional mods. There are a few mods, like the Genius mod, that are uncommon enough they do not receive their own classification.**

**Freak: any person born with any/ all of three attributes: the inability to receive mods, unnatural abilities, and/or symptoms of insanity. Freaks are considered dangerous and incompatible with modern society.**

**Glid: a floating car with side wings to increase acceleration. The most common form of transportation in London currently.**

**Mobile Implant: a phone chip imbedded in the ear to facilitate direct calls and messages.**

**iChip: a small chip required by law to be carried by all citizens of London. When plugged into any computer device, the iChip displays any and all pertinent personal information about the owner, such as name, address, and bloodtype. **

_**I think that's all of the major terms used, but let me know if there are others that are not self-expalnatory. In addition, there are two things I would like to mention: Tobias Gregson was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to serve as Lestrade's rival, so if any of you were wondering where he came from, he's not BBC canon, but rather original canon. Secondly, all street names came off a list of London street names I found online, so there might be discrepancies with the real streets. I apologize for a somewhat slow chapter, but the showdown is coming next… Again, thank you, and may there be strength in your arms,and courage in your heart.**_


	8. Chapter 8

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer: like a thief of the night, I have stolen these characters.**_

CHAPTER8

The darkness of the night was fading; John could see it in the fringes of grey crawling up behind the black buildings of London, and he could feel it in the determination of his heart. His path had taken him down strange, forlorn streets, past darkened houses, and through cluttered alleys, but he had felt no fear.

Now he stood before a towering, ancient church, its crumbling tower soaring up against the pale sky, and he felt satisfaction in having found it; 251 Fox Yard. Here was Sherlock, here was the mastermind behind the murders. And that meant that here was danger. Subconsciously, John reached up and touched the weapon he had concealed in his breast pocket. A good, old-fashioned gun, with, plain, non-incendiary bullets. Totally illegal, of course, but John would never think of walking into a situation like this without it.

A cab had been near impossible to find at this hour of the night- well, at this hour of the morning, really, and when he did find one, John instructed the cab to take him within five blocks of his ultimate destination. It was possible that the operation the mastermind was running was quite extensive, in which case, John arrival would be less likely to be noticed if he arrived on foot.

Walking the rest of the way, John had come to two realizations; one, this would never be a neighborhood he would consider moving into. Two, the villain's headquarters were probably not here. While classic crime scenarios had the evil doer based in a decidedly run-down warehouse, John knew that most villains, while certainly having a streak of the dramatic, were still pretty practical, and a building about to collapse in on itself was not the ideal place to stage your operations.

So this ancient church, St. Raphael's, was but a meeting place, and therefore, hopefully less well guarded than a headquarters would be. With this mind, John steeled himself, and began boldly walking up the path to the church's iron studded doors, dead grass and weeds growing through the cracks crunching beneath his shoes.

Reaching the twin, arched doors, John paused, and put his ear to the cold wood. Hearing no sound from within, John cautiously pushed one door partly open, and slipped inside silently.

He found himself in a great, shadowy narthex, with high, ornate walls, and the faint outline of statues hidden within alcoves. Directly in front of him was another pair of doors, likely leading into the main body of the church, from which he could hear faint voices echoing. Although they were quite indistinct, one sounded like the deep baritone of Sherlock's.

Heart leaping at the sound (_so he's not dead, the little bugger…)_, John nonetheless found himself faced with a dilemma; where was he to go from here? Obviously, he couldn't just barge through those doors, and say: "Hullo! How're you lot doing?" But waiting out here in the narthex until something exciting happened didn't seem like the best of ideas either.

Peering around in the gloom, John spied a small door off to the right, with a placard reading "choir loft" in gothic print. He moved over to the door, and tested it cautiously; much to his relief, it wasn't locked, so he slipped through and started ascending the narrow staircase.

After a few twist and turns, John finally reached the choir loft, which was basically a vast, square balcony overlooking the main body of the church. To the right were stacks of dusty chairs, to the left were moldy-looking cardboard boxes full of hymnals, and right in the middle was a massive, old organ decorated with swirling patterns of leaves and snakes. Obviously the place had not been used in some years.

The wood floor of the choir loft ended about twenty feet from where John stood in the doorway, in a short wall that evidently stood for a railing. Sizing it up, John carefully drew his gun, and scrambled hunched over to the railing to peek out on the scene unfolding down below.

Hundreds of flickering candles had been placed along the walls, in the alcoves of the stained glass windows, and on the ends of the pews. By their distorted light, John could see Sherlock, standing in the middle of the rows of pews.

The detective's, long shadow danced wildly, caught as it was by the playful flames, but Sherlock himself stood perfectly still, his hands thrust in the pockets of his typical long, black coat, his head slightly tilted to one side.

But while John was glad to see Sherlock alive, and apparently unharmed, it was the group of people clustered in front of his flat-mate that really caught his attention. There were, perhaps, eight of them, and though the light was dim and fickle, John could see that they were a wild, scruffy looking bunch.

Except for the one who stood in front of all the rest. He was immaculately dressed in a sleek suit, and his hair was sleeked back. The man was smiling wolfishly at Sherlock, and with a start, John realized that he knew those smug features; it was James Murtagh, the casual acquaintance of a few nights before.

Barely managing to conceal a gasp, John sank down beneath the railing trying to process what he had just seen. James Murtagh. The nice, friendly Engineer. _He _was the mastermind? It seemed to be so; obviously he was in charge of whatever was going on here, judging by the way he held himself.

But how could this be? How was this even possible? But a few days ago, James Murtagh had simply been a cheerful civil worker. Now he looked like a madman, a Freak; it was as though his personas had changed overnight.

And if this James Murtagh had been behind the murders all along, then their meeting could not have been a mere coincidence. He had probably arranged so that he could meet this man who had suddenly appeared in Sherlock's life… but, realizing that they were speaking again, John left his speculation, and peered over the balustrade again.

"…but I'm kind of disappointed you didn't bring a phone, Sherlock!" Laughed Murtagh, licking his lips. "I would have loved to pat you down… and if you had an implanted mobile, well, I would have had to have one of the boys rip it out of your ear!"

Briefly, John realized that Murtagh was also the voice of the mysterious caller who had given him such a cryptic talk right before he was attacked by that random beefy guy. But before he could reflect on this, Sherlock interrupted his thoughts from down below.

"Enough, Moriarty. Explain why you told me to come here."

_Moriarty? _Thought John, curiously. _ I wonder if Murtagh is an alias, then…._

But whoever he was, the crazy man just laughed. "Oh, I'm so _happy_, Sherlock, I'm so happy you got my message! Do you know, how much effort I put into making that message perfect, just for you? How hard it was to find the right people! And then when you caught Seb- but not before he gave you a nosebleed, I hear! When you caught Sebby, I was a little worried that you wouldn't be able to figure out what the message was with just three dead bodies! But here you are. So, Sherly, _what was the purpose of my little message?"_

Sherlock just stared at Moriarty (or Murtagh) contemptuously. "The message was both an invitation, and a test. An invitation to join your little…support group, and a test to see if I was worthy of doing so."

Moriarty clapped his hands together delightedly, and then grabbed one of the members of the group by the shoulder, and pulled her to face Sherlock.

"Oh, but this is so much more than a support group! I had this theory, see, about people like me. About people like Clary here. Go on, Clary, tell him what you are. Show him what you can do. Go on!"

The girl named Clary stepped forward nervously, the twisting light of the candles casting shadows in the hollows of her cheekbones. John watched, fascinated, as the girl began speaking quietly.

"I- I am Clary…at least, that what he says my name is, but I don't know. But I know _what_ I am. I'm a Freak. And I, um, can draw the light."

As she said this, she kept her head cast down, but the end of her little introduction, she took a great, gasping breath, and every shard of light, every tiny glow, flew from all corners of the church and into her open mouth.

Then Clary closed her mouth firmly, and thus was the church cast into the deepest darkness that ever was, a darkness that chilled John down to the very bone, for it was entirely devoid of any spark of light, of anything to relive the unrelenting black.

Hints of nightmares washed over him, fears that echoed in his brain from troubles of the past. Now, in the darkness, he remembered the presence of Death, and how it had loomed over him in the Army. That constant fear that you learned to live with, but that never really went away, that fear of being cast from this world into one where the nothingness began to eat away at the very fabric of your soul…

"Isn't she good?" came Moriarty's purr, from the blackness. "Isn't she _talented_? I found her, you know, in a mental hospital, because she was all _crazy_! But I saw her worth. Clary can draw light to herself. And the, when she releases it, it can be used as a weapon. To blind people, to confuse them… but I think just the ability to eliminate the presence of light is pretty wonderful, don't you? Now, release the light, dear. But gently, gently."

A blinding glow appeared down between the pews, and for a moment John couldn't even look at it, it was so bright. But then, with a whoosh, every bit of light returned to its proper place. The flames reappeared on the candles, and resumed emitting their crazy glow.

John breathed a soft sigh of relief. The terror that had visited him in the blackness had begun to recede somewhat. Sherlock, however, seemed perfectly unfazed by the demonstration. Still he stood motionless, tall and bleak in his black garb.

Moriarty patted Clary on the head fondly, and then, with a faint shove to push her back to the group, he resumed his talking. "See, Sherlock, I have this theory. The Freak's Theory, I call it, because after all, I am a Freak! Which you probably already knew, being so clever and all, but most people would never suspect _me_ of being a Freak, because don't I just look like a decent Engineer? But what they don't remember is, just because mods don't work on Freaks, doesn't mean that mods aren't sometimes given to them anyway.

"So, there I was, a crazy little man, in a crazy little place, and the doctors tried to give me an Engineer mod, because wouldn't it be nice if Freaks could be turned into respectable citizens? Well, the mod didn't work of course, but it was while I was recovering that I got an idea. Do you want to hear my idea, Sherlock?"

The detective shook his head, looking bored. "No. I want you to explain why three people were killed just so I could receive your calling card."

For a moment, Moriarty's mask of faintly insane geniality slipped. "SHUT UP!" he yelled, his features suddenly contorted with fury. "Straighten you priorities, _detective_, or I swear I will do unspeakable things to you!"

And then just like that, the psychopath was gone, and the pleasantly charming madman was back. "At any rate. So, my idea. I realized that I was never going to have any fun in a mental hospital, so I pretended the mod worked, and Jim Moriarty, Freak was cast aside, to be replaced by James Murtagh, Engineer. And I went out into the real world, and saw that people had created these systems in order to maintain power. Because, you see, all people want power. Even Freaks.

"But the systems these people had created were so complex, so complicated, and I got to thinking; how much power can you have if you are bound to a system? The Freaks are the ones with true power. Not just because of our "gifts". No, our real power comes from the fact that we can't be fit in the system. Freaks cannot receive mods, so they can't control us. Our insanity sets us free!

"And that's why I began finding the Freaks, Sherlock. To join all the _free_ people together, so that together, with our incredible links, we might break the weak points in the system. It's been easy, so far!" laughed Moriarty, throwing his arms up into the air, while his Freakish followers cringed behind him.

"We are so powerful! You know what my gift is, Sherly? It's creating links, like the telepathic links created by the Angels Vengeful, but so much stronger. Once I have touched someone, I can usually create a link with their mind, and use it to amass knowledge and control. You know, once I heard you had a new flat-mate, well, I just had to meet him! After all, he must be something else if he could stand to live with _you_. So I "bumped" into him, shook his hand, and then that night tried to open a link with his mind, but I got interrupted by something else intruding- some impossible dream about hedgehogs…

"But no matter! That Army doctor of yours is a pretty strong pet, and if you are very good, I might let you keep him. So, what do you say, Sherly? Will you join our little group? With you, as talented as you are, we can begin by infiltrating the ranks of Angels Official. I hear you have a brother there… So, will you join us, the harbingers of chaos, the rulers of insanity, the Freaks?"

John was struck almost dumb. The idea of a band of Freaks, led by a genius madman, had never been an idea he thought possible. But now he saw just how dangerous such a group could be. Led by Moriarty, the amount of chaos and confusion such powerful Freaks could cause was almost unbelievable.

He found he could not tear his eyes from the scene below, as the whole silent church waited for Sherlock's response. It was like a frozen tableau. The Freaks, grimy and tattered, with strange lights in their eyes. Moriarty, King of the Freaks, smug and eager, with his fancy clothes and wild face. And Sherlock, cold and black in the wavering candlelight, like a silent specter.

Finally, Sherlock said, without looking up: "I do not know why you think I would wish to participate in your anarchical activities, or why you would even want me in your group. We have nothing in common."

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed crazily, the peals of his mirth rolling about the church, reverberating off the stone walls. At the sound of his raucous amusement, the Freaks shrank back even more.

"Nothing in common?! But we have everything in common, Sherly! We are both vastly more intelligent than the silly little humans of this world, and we are both easily bored with the mundaneness of this world. _And we are both Freaks._ Will you deny it?"

And the detective's shoulders rolled forward, and for the first time, John saw Sherlock look almost…vulnerable. Scared.

"No." said Sherlock, so quietly that John could barely him from the loft. "No, I do not deny it. I am a Freak."

_**A/N: Sorry if Moriarty seemed a bit out-of-character in this one; I swear no matter what I did, his character just insisted on writing his own lines, and I had no choice in it. Anyway, please, please do review, so that my heart may be filled with joy. Thank you, and may your words echo with the sound of wisdom.**_


	9. Chapter 9

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer: The amount of fictional characters that I own is virtually nil.**_

CHAPTER 9

"_I am a Freak."_

Even though they were almost whispered, the words shattered the still atmosphere of the church. The players in this unfolding drama stiffened, leant forward eagerly, as if to reassure themselves if they had heard aright.

Silence followed the proclamation; silence so profound that for John it seemed the entire world had paused in a moment of breathless anticipation. Then Moriarty broke the silence with an explosive laugh.

"_Sherlock! _Ah, my little _Freak! _I am so proud, _so proud_ that you admit it at last! I know what it is, Sherly, to walk through the world knowing that you're a monster in the eyes of every other living soul, but now you are amongst _friends_, Sherlock! People who understand! People who can change the _world."_

Sherlock did not respond in any fashion. Still he hung his head low, dark locks of hair obscuring his eyes, as though deeply ashamed of his admission. And well he should be, thought John almost angrily. The shock of hearing such a statement from his new friend was beginning to wear, and the implications were beginning to sink in.

He had lied; Sherlock had _lied_. The great detective had kept his true, Freakish nature hidden from everyone around him, had claimed to be a genius, and had the audacity to pretend to be an expert in crime. But some of his inhumanity had leaked through his constructs of normality. No wonder he seemed to have no friends; no wonder all of previous flat-mates had lasted for such brief periods of time.

And yet… Staring down at the Fre- _Sherlock_, John remembered how he had been willing to take a perfect stranger in. How he had included John in the detective work that was obviously important to him. And how dedicated he was to the catching of criminals, almost to the exclusion of all else. Perhaps the enigmatic, hunched man in the church aisle was a Freak, but if so, maybe he was different from all the others.

"No words?" Teased Moriarty, holding both arms out as if to embrace Sherlock. "Aren't you going to join us, my little Freak? Come with Daddy and his little brood? _SAY SOMETHING!" _Moriarty finished with a yell, switching instantaneously from jovial (albeit creepy), to downright furious at Sherlock's lack of response.

"I am not a monster." Said Sherlock, suddenly, clenching his hands at his sides, although his head remained bowed.

Moriarty just harrumphed. "No, I was just telling you, we don't think of you as a monster. You are a Freak just like us, and that's nothing to be ashamed of. Now, come on, and-"

"NO!" yelled Sherlock, raising his head angrily, his deep voice resonating like a tolling bell. "No! You do _not_ understand! I may be a Freak, like you, but there the resemblance ends. _I am not a monster_. I do not bend others to my will, I do not start subversive cults, and I do not murder! You are the monster, Moriarty, and I defy you."

A deep crimson slowly suffused Moriarty's face, and John's hand crept to the hilt of his gun. But then Moriarty just chuckled, shaking his head. "Aw. How…_disappointing_! I always knew you were special, Sherly, from the moment I began keeping my eye on you. And yet, for some reason, even though you have such great potential, you choose to remain on the side of the Angels, as though you were ordinary! Very well then. If you insist on being ordinary, then I will personally ensure that you die a not-so-ordinary death."

John had heard enough. Before Moriarty had even finished the sentence, he was on his feet, and running out the loft, down the stairs and back to the narthex. Panting slightly, more from nervous anticipation than exertion, John drew his gun, and burst through the doors into the nave.

The feel of the tableau again changed dramatically as the new player made his grand entrance onto the stage. Like a herd of startled sheep, the band of bedraggled Freaks, scuttled away from the cold presence of a gun being pointed in their general direction. Moriarty, who was already facing the doors when John came barreling through, just smirked lazily, as though not surprised at all to see him.

It was Sherlock who reacted with something akin to shock. He spun around with a swirl of his coat at the sound of the doors crashing open, and his eyes widened when he saw the ex-Soldier. "John? I wasn't sure if you would understand the message-"

"If anyone is going to die here, it will be you, Moriarty" John interrupted coldly, walking straight to Sherlock's side, gun pointing directly at Moriarty's heart."

"Ah, the Pet! I was _wondering_ when you would appear-"

But John was in an interrupting mood. "Shut up." He said, calmly. "No one wants to hear your poisonous words anymore. But I promise, if you back off now, we will give you five minutes head start before I call the Angels Vengeful. If you don't, I will not hesitate to pull the trigger."

Beside him, John thought he heard Sherlock laugh a little, as if in appreciation of John's tactics. But for once, Moriarty did not appear amused. He almost looked bored, like he was beginning to weary of the whole thing.

"Oh, why did you summon your Pet, Sherly? He's so…_ unoriginal_. You remember when we met in the park, Pet? Well, I thought you were boring then, and I think you are boring now. Bringing a gun to a Freak fight? That's not very clever… ah well. I trust you don't want anyone but me dead on this night? You don't, say, want _them_ dead, do you?" Moriarty asked, gesturing to the Freaks behind him.

John shook his head no, and Moriarty grinned crazily, then snapped his fingers. Nothing happened for a moment, and John was about to say something biting, about how ineffectual Moriarty's methods were, when Sherlock nudged him, and whispered quietly, "_Look at their eyes._"

Momentarily shifting his gaze from Moriarty, John looked over to the Freaks, and though at first he thought it was a trick of the shadows, he soon realized that their eyes had become entirely black, with no pupil, or iris discernable.

Along with their eye color, the attitude of the eight Freaks changed. Previously, they had seemed cowed, almost frightened; now, they suddenly stiffened, and then began walking jerkily to stand in front of Moriarty.

_He's controlling them…_ realized John, as he pointed his gun at first Freak, then another. _ That's Moriarty's ability; he literally took over their minds, and now is using them as a human shield_.

Standing like a line of shoddy Soldiers, the Freaks stood directly in front of Moriarty, and John knew that he would have to shoot one of them in order to get to their puppeteer.

"Now what are you going to do?" asked Moriarty, drawlingly, his voice floating from above the heads of the motionless, black-eyed Freaks. "I have perfect control over them. _ Perfect control_. If I tell them to stop a bullet for me, they will. If I tell them to stop breathing, they will do so without hesitation. So, Sherlock, if you have any control over your Pet, you'd better tell him to put the gun down, before someone gets hurt. We wouldn't that, would we?"

At a nod from Sherlock, John lowered the gun reluctantly. He was beginning to think there would be no way out of this that did not end in bloodshed and death. "_Now what?"_ He whispered, looking up at Sherlock, whose eyes were narrowed, as he tried to assess the situation.

"NO whispering!" yelled Moriarty, and the two heard a snap as he clicked his fingers again. Moving in a smooth formation, the Freaks broke the line, and instead formed a circle, with John, Sherlock, and Moriarty enclosed within.

"Well… isn't this cozy!" said Moriarty, sidling right up to Sherlock, who narrowed his nostrils as though a particularly loathsome specimen had crawled beneath his nose. "Now, I trust we can talk like civilized men, Johnny boy, without you pointing that gun at anyone? Because you know what might happen if you do!"

Nodding a bit sullenly, John placed the gun at his feet. Moriarty eyed the weapon with the same sort of distaste that Sherlock was eyeing him with. "That's better. Well, now, Sherlock, what was that you were saying about defying me?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. Without the blue-green color of his irises, the detective's face looked more like a death's-head than ever in the shadowy light of the flickering flames. In comparison, Moriarty seem to glow with an inner light, and his big, brown eyes danced with twisted merriment.

"I have defied you, and I will live to do so again." Sherlock intoned the words like a prayer, quietly, and with little inflection. "If Fortune has it, then Dr. Watson will defy you by my side, until one day you find yourself with no walls to cower behind, no lives to hold above our heads. On that day, you will wish you had the opportunity to defy death, but that opportunity will not be given you. For a lack of sanity is not a crime, but a deliberate lack of morals is, and for this crime you will pay."

"You are the one who is cowering behind his own words" sneered Moriarty. "Look around! You are surrounded by my Freaks, in an abandoned church, and you have nowhere, _nowhere_ to run. So give me your brave speeches, fill the air with your empty words, but know that you will die here regardless."

They were indeed surrounded. John scanned the Freaks circled around them; normally he wouldn't have viewed such a bedraggled lot as a threat, but with a wild card like Moriarty controlling them, the Freaks could be very, very dangerous. Now the Freaks were standing stock still, black eyes staring at nothing, but at any minute the situation could change, and John was well aware of this. He wasn't the sort to panic easily, but this was a bad situation, and he knew it.

Moriarty fingered the lapel of Sherlock's coat, but still the detective's eyes remained closed. "I thought you would be smarter than this, Sherly, and have some sort of back up, other than your Pet, but no! I expected you to at least contact your brother, but all my sources tell me thatyouneverdid…"

The lilting leer of Moriarty's words slowly faded, much to John's puzzlement. He turned to see why the King of Freaks had ceased monologuing, only to realize that a blackness was seeping at the edges of his vision, gradually obscuring his sight.

_What the-? What the hell is going on?!_... Heart racing, John began flipping through mental scenarios of various catastrophes. Was Moriarty attacking his senses mentally? Or perhaps one of the Freaks? Was this some sort of poison Sherlock had administered to him that was having unexpected side effects? _ I can't see, I can't see, I can't see, I CAN'T SEE…_

JOHN.

In the midst of his panic attack, his name suddenly flashed across the darkness of his vision, leaving behind a blue-white trail. _Wha- what's going on? I-_ More words appeared in the darkness, like glowing text.

JOHN. CALM DOWN. I SHUT DOWN YOUR SENSE RECEPTORS MOMENTARILY SO YOU WOULD SEE THIS MESSAGE.

_Um… what? Sherlock, is that you? What the hell? Are you inside my mind? 'Cause if you are, you better get the hell out right NOW!_

NO. THAT IS MORIARTY'S TALENT. I AM SIMPLY SENDING YOU INFORMATION. THAT IS MY TALENT.

John mentally shook his head. This was so weird. _Okaaaayyy… what's going on? Is Moriarty still talking? How are you reading my thoughts? Do you have a plan to communicate, or did you just figure we should have a nice chat via telepathy?_

YOU ARE ASKING TOO MANY QUESTIONS, AND I HARDLY THINK NOW IS THE TIME TO EXPLAIN MY ABILITY. WHICH IS NOT TELEPATHY, BY THE WAY. NOW, I NEED YOU TO DISTRACT MORIARTY WITH SOME OF YOUR EXCEPTIONAL WIT WHILE I SEND CONFLICTING INFORMATION TO THE FREAKS IN ORDER TO BREAK HIS HOLD.

_Yeah, don't you think he's gonna notice? _

NOT IF YOU ARE DISTRACTING HIM. AT ANY RATE, WHEN HIS HOLD OVER THEM IS SUFFICIENTLY WEAKENED, ATTACK MORIARTY.

_Attack Moriarty?! With what, my bare hands?_

IT WON'T BE THE FIRST TIME YOU HAVE ATTACKED A FREAK WITH YOUR BARE HANDS. NOW START THE DISTRACTION.

The darkness began to fade from his eyes, and John blinked as both his vision and hearing returned to normal. Sherlock was still standing impassively, looking as if he was doing nothing more than contemplating how he would like to disembowel Moriarty. Who, unsurprisingly, was still talking.

"…really, Sherlock, I was impressed by how quickly you picked up on the messages. I was planning to repeat them, but-"

"Hey, um, could you just, I dunno, shut up?" interrupted John, suddenly. Moriarty immediately spun around to face him, taking his eyes off Sherlock. His eyes widened with a look of delighted shock, and he waved his hands excitedly.

"Oooh, the Pet has _spirit_!" crowed Moriarty happily. John eyed him warily, well aware that the man's mood changes were lightning fast, and Moriarty could be spitting furious any moment. But, glancing over at Sherlock, whose lidded eyes were cast upon the ground, John resigned himself to the task of actually trying to make Moriarty mad, so that Sherlock could do…whatever it was he was doing.

"Mehh, not spirit as much as boredom." Said John shrugging. "Honestly, that speech was enough to put anyone to sleep. Just death, death, death, blah, blah, blah…"

Moriarty leaned right up to John's face. This close, John caught the scent of an unpleasant smell wafting off him, rather like a combination of blood and cologne. His grin was wild and more than a little creepy. "Do you really think death is boring? I could help you change your mind, wouldn't that be fun?"

John's eyes momentarily flickered over to the Freaks, before returning his gaze to Moriarty. "Nope. Doesn't sound fun at all. You lack flair." He answered calmly, staring the madman in the eye. But his peripheral vision kept returning to the eyes of the Freaks which were slowly changing in color from black to an odd pale blue.

Like the shadows thrown by the wavering light, a faint frown flew across Moriarty's playful features. "_I_ lack flair? You are the plain one, the _simple_ one! With your tea, and Civilian mod, and _jumpers_- no, you are just…_ordinary, _and-"

"No." interrupted John, feeling more confident now. "In a world of Freakish people and abnormal practices, you are ordinary. All of your, your clever plans, they've all been done before. There are people with power like yours. So a man like me, someone who craves the simple life of goodness and decency, _that's _the person who is truly extraordinary. So, you- you can _stuff_ it!"

His defiant words rang as if in a hollow darkness, while Moriarty stared at him curiously. That was when, this time without the sensory shut-down, the words PUNCH HIS ARROGANT FACE RIGHT NOW flashed across Moriarty's forehead. Almost laughing at the irony, John drew his arm back and slammed his fist into Moriarty's face with a meaty, satisfying thud. It is possible that no punching had ever felt so wonderful.

Moriarty staggered, bending over double, and clutching his bloody nose. John was about to swiftly punch him in the kidneys, when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see a sagging, middle-aged Freak leaning over him, who had one pitch black eye, and one gleaming blue. Before John could yell at Sherlock for failing to break Moriarty's mental hold over one of them, the Freak opened his mouth and a sickly grey mist spilled out.

Confusion followed the mist, and scattered John's senses. _I- oh the… the mist… bit not good- er…what? I just… _And then a sharp cracking noise shattered the murky muddle, and John swam back into awareness of his surroundings to see the Freak collapsed on the floor, blood pooling out of his nose, and Sherlock shaking his hand with a slight grimace.

"Did-did you just punch a Freak in the nose?"

"What?" asked Sherlock defensively "you've done the same befo-" But before he could say another word, Moriarty straightened from his crouch and flung himself at the tall detective and grabbed his shoulders in a fierce grip.

Instantly John moved to attack Moriarty and free his friend, but then stopped when he saw the two were not fighting; rather, they were locked in what appeared to be a death stare match, neither moving, or even hardly breathing. As John watched, Moriarty's dark, chocolaty brown eyes slowly became deep black, while Sherlock's cold eyes began gleaming pale blue. Obviously they were engaged in some sort of mental battle, and John could do nothing but stand by helplessly and watch.

He could, he supposed, bosh Moriarty over the head, or even shoot him with the gun that was lying somewhere on the floor, but then what would happen to Sherlock? What if his consciousness was somehow inside of Moriarty's mind? Would Sherlock's mind be damaged then if Moriarty died?

Deciding to at least find the gun if nothing else, John tore his eyes away from the two frozen men, only to see that the group of Freaks was blinking and looking around dazedly. Both the blue and the black had faded from their pupils, leaving their eyes normal colors; obviously whatever kind of hold Sherlock or Moriarty had placed on them had vanished.

"Wha-what's going on?" asked the youngest looking of the Freaks (Clary, he remembered her name to be).

"Where did the knowledge go?"

"Why do I now know how to dismantle an atomic bomb?"

"What became of the touch of our Master?"

"I don't- the candles-"

"Why-"

"_SHUT UP!_" yelled John, though he instantly regretted his outburst when he saw the stricken look on their faces as they flinched backwards. In that instant, John saw them not as monsters, but rather as poor lunatics who had for too long livid under the thumb of an evil man.

"Alright, listen" John instructed, in calm, but firm voice. "Your Master is…er, testing his theory over there, and he would like you lot to just, um, back away over there, and just wait at the back of the church, and… yeah, so go!"

John made a little shooing motion towards the back of the church, and the Freaks stared at him for a few tense moments before scuttling off (much to his relief). Evidently, with Moriarty's mind control gone, they would react to any strong authority presence.

Casting his eyes about, John lit on his gun lying by one of the pews a feet away, and quickly grabbed, before returning to where Sherlock and Moriarty stood like blank-faced statues.

Up close, John saw that a thin layer of sweat prickled on Sherlock's pale forehead, and a tiny smile curved the corners of Moriarty's mouth. Should he be worried about these details? Was this a sign that Moriarty's crazy mind was triumphing over Sherlock's logical one?

His hands shaking slightly, John lifted the gun, and pointed the barrel at Moriarty's temple. This black-eyed, black-hearted man deserved to die. He was a murderer, a madman, and a Freak, and he had arranged for who knew how many unspeakable deaths. So John felt no qualms in dispatching this bastard with a bullet to his wild brain. But in pulling the trigger, what might happen to Sherlock? For John knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sherlock did not deserve to die.

The decision teetered back and forth in John's mind like a klutz on a tightrope; if he did not shoot, Moriarty might end up controlling Sherlock, and then proceed to kill both the detective, and his companion. If he did shoot, Sherlock's mind might be damaged forever.

Finally, he took a deep breath, and tried to calm his hands. One finger curled around the trigger as he exhaled. He would shoot. He would pull the trigger. He would put an end to this confrontation with a madman. He would-

"Oh dear" said a smooth voice, echoing from the entrance of the church. John snapped his focus from the barrel of the gun to the doorway, where he saw a tall, somewhat portly man, dressed immaculately, and leaning on an umbrella.

"What has my little brother gotten himself into this time?"

_**Thank you to all the readers, and do please leave a review. I would dearly love a couple just to ascertain what exactly people think of this story. At any rate, thank you again, and may life give you kittens and cookies in great abundance.**_


	10. Chapter 10

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer: I do not own ANYTHING, and that makes me sad.**_

CHAPTER 10

John stood frozen to the spot, gun still pressed against Moriarty's temple, as the man smoothly made his way over to the trio of motionless actors.

"You are, I presume, the estimable ex-Soldier, John Hamish Watson?" the strange man questioned blandly. But all John could do was wonder; was this pompous looking man really the older brother Sherlock had mentioned? "I was most surprised to hear Sherlock had found a new flat-mate, especially after the fiasco of the last one… but really, I _was _hoping you might induce him to adopt a more sedate way of life. Ah well. Perhaps that was naïve of me."

Finally finding his tongue, John stammered out: "Um, who are you?"

Sherlock's brother sighed heavily. "He did not tell you about me? How… unsurprising. I am the man who once wished to be Sherlock's friend, but have since resigned myself to being his nemesis. I am his brother, Mycroft Holmes, and I am a Genius, and an Angel Official."

A small bubble of faintly hysterical amusement built up within John, and he only barely managed not to giggle aloud. Of course. The Holmes brothers. One was a rare and dangerous Freak, and the world's only consulting detective; the other had the two most rare and difficult to get mods, ones that were reserved solely for those in high government positions.

"Well, it is a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes." John declared, a little wildly. "But what say you help me out of this little predicament here, and then we can discuss your family problems?"

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in evident distaste. "I fail to see a predicament. Sherlock has tangled with Moriarty – yes, of course I know who he is. Do you imagine I would not keep track of any recent developments? – And now they are engaged in what you might call a mental headlock. My brother will obviously win. Why should you pull the trigger on a man who might have valuable information to offer?"

"Moriarty is a murderer!" cried John angrily. "I see no reason why I shouldn't stick the barrel in his mouth and blow his head off!"

The Angel Official's eyes gleamed. "So your plan is to shoot someone with an illegal firearm right in front of a man capable of putting you in prison for a lifetime? Not a very well thought out idea, is it?"

Scowling, John slowly drew the gun down from Moriarty's temple, and then walked over to Mycroft angrily. "So what, we're just going to stand here and watch them like it's some kind of show?! Don't you care at all what happens to your brother?"

A part of John cringed at the audacity he was showing to such an important, high-up Angel, but it was drowned out by his anger that this icy man just wanted to stand by and do nothing.

"Oh, relax." Sighed Mycroft, waving his umbrella in the air casually. "There is literally nothing we can do, except call the Angels Vengeful, which I have already done. So for goodness sakes, calm yourself."

John opened his mouth to object, but then shut it again. Perhaps Mycroft was right. And at least the police were on their way. Although what they would think of the scene before them was something John did not want to think about…

So the two stood in silence, the minutes seeming to drag on, while Sherlock and Moriarty remained utterly motionless, with their eyes glowing. After a moment, a thought occurred to John. "Wait a minute. If the Angels Vengeful come here and find them like that, they will know that Sherlock is a Freak, right?"

"Your concern is touching. Technically, they are already here; the Angels Vengeful arrived about three minutes ago, but I told them to wait until I give the signal to enter. Once the mental fight is over, I will send them a telepathic message" Mycroft said, tapping his temple. "And they will come immediately to arrest Moriarty and his brainwashed compatriots."

"Ah." John could not think of anything to say after that, so the two relapsed into silence again. The light cast by the guttering candles flickered wildly, and John forced himself to stifle a yawn. Then his eye was caught by the sight of a pale blue nimbus glowing around faintly around Sherlock's head. As he watched, it grew, until Moriarty was bathed in its eerie light.

"Um, what's that?" asked John a little nervously. The light was rather…well, freakish, and somewhat concerning.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow delicately, and answered without looking at John. "That is the ideal form of knowledge, or information".

That did not help at all. John was still definitely confused. "Er… Knowledge has an ideal form? What does that mean? Knowledge doesn't exist as a physical form, right?"

"Well of course Knowledge has a physical form!" Mycroft replied, looking at him askance. "Do you think wars would be fought, and lives thrown away for the sake of something that does not exist? Like our thoughts (which it is a concentrated form of), Knowledge as an ideal exists on a metaphysical level that is simply inaccessible to the minds of most humans, regardless of any mods they have been given. However, my little brother was born with the ability to interact and manipulate Knowledge on its metaphysical level, and for that and his incapability to interact properly with society, he has been labeled a Freak."

Much of this rather flew directly over John's head. However, it did impress on him two things; first, it was a true gift that Sherlock had, and for him for to be labeled as a madman because of it was a crime. Second, whatever had gone on between them in the past, Mycroft remained proud of his little brother.

"So… Sherlock is manipulating knowledge to overcome Moriarty? And that blue glow-thingy is the knowledge?'

Sherlock's older brother shook his head. "No. that is the energy being cast off by the manipulation of knowledge, and the attempt to inundate Moriarty's mind with it. That's a surprising amount of energy, really. Normally, my brother only has to expend very trace amounts of energy in order to subdue someone's mind, but I suspect a mind like Moriarty's is very slippery."

"Is the energy dangerous?" John questioned. The glow was beginning to brighten substantially, and it was worrying him. "I know it's… metaphysical, but can it affect things on the everyday level?"

"Very possibly. In fact, we may wish to stand back a little."

As Mycroft said this, they both became aware of a low hum resonating throughout the church. With one accord, they moved down the aisle so they were closer to the door, and farther away from the glow that was now almost too bright to look at directly.

One by one, the candles began to flicker and die. First the very back of the church, where the group of Moriarty's Freaks stood huddled, was cast into shadow, and then the area by the door. Soon the only thing left was the unearthly pale glow that so starkly illuminated the darkness.

Beside him, Mycroft was still cool and collected, but John could not imitate his manner. The wars and fights of ordinary men he could deal with, but this strange battle of the Freaks unnerved him. It was an unknown quantity, and he did not know how to react.

Musing on this, John was suddenly struck by the realization that the floor was shaking faintly beneath him. Though nearly imperceptible at first, the tremble worsened until it felt rather like the beginnings of an earthquake. He glanced at Mycroft, but that icy man looked just as calm and cool as ever.

The light was becoming almost unbearable. The hum, too, had increased in frequency, and now sounded more like a high-pitched whine. John was just throwing his hands up to cover his ears, when the light flared with a supernova-brilliancy, and John just glimpsed the sight of Sherlock and Moriarty being flung into the air, before everything faded into utter blackness.

_Sherlock! _Eyes blinded, ears ringing, John sprinted forward in the darkness, bumping into pews as he tried to find that idiot flat-mate of his. _What happened? What went wrong? Oh, if he's dead I will KILL him…_

From somewhere ahead of him, John could hear the Freaks calling out for Moriarty, trying to find him, just as he desperately trying to find Sherlock.

"Master?"

"What happened? There was a flash of light, and then…"

_Any remaining influence Sherlock had on them must have worn off…_ John realized suddenly. This meant they could be dangerous again-

_Bump._ He had walked into something, a heap on the floor. Heart thudding, John collapsed to his knees, and began feeling around in the darkness, until he found a hand, long, thin and cold. And it was not six-fingered, like Moriarty's. He had found Sherlock!

Quickly, he moved his fingers along Sherlock's wrist, looking for a pulse. But then, suddenly, the hand was whipped away violently.

"I will thank you not to touch me." Said a deep voice in the blackness, and John almost laughed from relief. Obviously, Sherlock was not dying.

"Goodness, Sherlock, it's just me! Here let me you help up." Sherlock placed his hand in John's own a little begrudgingly, and John pulled him with a rustle of cloth. "Now, are you alright?"

"I-"

"_EVERYONE PUT THEIR HANDS IN THE AIR RIGHT THIS INSTANT!"_

John and Sherlock blinked in the sudden light as Angels Vengeful poured into the church, some bearing large solar lanterns. Lestrade led the way, pointing a gun at the Freaks in the back. Catching sight of the detective and his companion, Lestrade hurried over to them, while motioning for the rest of the Angels to round up the stunned-looking Freaks.

"You two are here? What the hell?" asked Lestrade, a little angrily.

"Long story" muttered Sherlock dismissively, while John, looking around, realized that both Mycroft and Moriarty were nowhere to be seen. Probably not a coincidence…

Lestrade snorted, staring around at all the guttered candles. "Well, care to elaborate?"

But Sherlock just shook his head casually, while readjusting his scarf.

"Er, remember those serial murders?" John began to explain hastily, before Lestrade could get too mad. "Well, Sherlock figured out there was a whole, um, group of Freaks behind it, and so we found their hideout using, er, deductions. And when we got here, it was very dark, so… we, um… were trying to come up with a plan to take them down." He finished, rather lamely.

Fortunately, Lestrade seemed a little too distracted by the sight of eight Freaks being arrested to really question the flimsy story. "Okay… so you are certain they are responsible for the murders? I thought you said it wasn't a Freak behind these crimes."

"Ah, but it wasn't. It was a group of Freaks, and there is a difference.'

The Detective Inspector raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Uh-huh. Well, let me tell you, I was not expecting this. We got a tip from a government Official (they are involved in the Freak rehabilitation programs, you know), that there was a group of rogue Freaks out here, but I was not expecting you two… and normally I'd have you go in for questioning, but hell, we're all tired. It can wait until tomorrow. Or, rather, later today, I suppose… Okay, men, are they properly restrained?"

Lestrade moved off to assist in the arrangements for transporting the Freaks, and Sherlock and John, not really wanting to hang around any longer, headed out to the curb, where John called for a cab.

Seeing him now in the growing daylight, John saw that Sherlock looked very tired, and paler than was usual. "So, what exactly happened with Moriarty in there, anyway?"

"I was able to overcome his mind, but I was unable to keep control of the energy required to do so. And it spiked, knocking me out briefly. I'm fine now. What happened to Moriarty, did you see?"

John shrugged. "Well, Mycroft vanished when he did, so I'm assuming Mycroft took him away-"

"Wait" interrupted Sherlock "My brother was there?"

"Yeah, didn't you see him? He popped in while you and Moriarty were…I dunno, mind-dueling, and we talked for a bit. He seemed… rather cold."

"He's a pompous little bugger." Muttered Sherlock grumpily, and John, after staring at him for a moment, burst out laughing. Perhaps he was just too tired, but for some reason, a Freak detective calling his Genius Angel Official brother a pompous bugger was absolutely hilarious.

After a few moments, Sherlock chuckled a little, joining in, and by the time the cab rolled up, the two of them were standing on the sidewalk laughing helplessly.

_**A/N: So, first, I apologize for the late upload. I went on a brief vacation, and wasn't able to write any on this chapter. Second, if anyone was a little confused about Mycroft's explanation of Sherlock's ability, let me just say that it is based on Platonic metaphysics. I don't want to give a philosophy lecture, so let me just say that Plato envisioned a world of ideal forms on which all forms in the physical world are based. So, Sherlock can manipulate Knowledge on its pure, ideal level, rather than just simple knowledge of earthly forms. Hope that helps. Anyways, thank you so much to all those who have read, reviewed, and generally supported this story! There is still an epilogue coming, so it is not quite finished. And I am not quite sure about this chapter, because I basically wrote it in an afternoon, but ah well. Please do review, and the may The Fates not sever your string until great things have passed!**_


	11. Chapter 11

THE FREAK'S THEORY

_**Disclaimer: we all cling to things that we can never own.**_

Glinting silver in the sunlight pouring through the window, the knife flashed as it cut with precision through the cold flesh of the dismembered hand. John looked away, faintly nauseated.

He had experience in the medical fields. Numerous times he himself had wielded the scalpel in a dissection, and he was no stranger to the sight of dismembered limbs. But watching his flat-mate cut up a cadaver's hand on the kitchen table with undisguised glee was definitely more disconcerting.

"Where did you even get the bloody thing?" asked John disgustedly, as Sherlock slowly peeled back a layer of skin. "Wait, never mind; I don't want to know!"

Sherlock paid him no mind, but instead peered at the muscles and tendons beneath the skin. It had been almost two days since the encounter with the crazed Moriarty, and John had had this fain hope, that maybe, just maybe, life would settle down a little bit.

They didn't have to go view more dead bodies, because, technically, the murder case was closed. They didn't have to run around, chasing people, and fighting, and deducing. So John had thought that maybe he could finally get settled, and get to know his new friend a little better.

Wrong. First, Sherlock had sent John to the station to make up stories for Lestrade, because apparently, Sherlock was too busy finishing something important. Then, the detective had made him call Mycroft and tell the Angel Official not to stick his long nose into his brother's case ever again. That had been an interesting phone call…

At the end of it, Mycroft had made a vague allusion to having a chat with Moriarty, which reinforced John's thought that Mycroft had vanished with Moriarty, so that he could interrogate the Freak before the Angels Vengeful could do so.

But when he mentioned this idea to Sherlock, he had simply shrugged eloquently, and then disappeared, only to show up a little later clutching a severed arm. Apparently, dissection just happened to be one of his odd habits. Yes, he was technically a Freak, but did he have to be so strange?!

"So is this just what you like to do of a Sunday afternoon? Poke at limbs with a knife?" Sipping his tea, which Mrs. Hudson had so kindly brought him, John couldn't quite disguise his biting sarcasm.

Sighing, Sherlock looked up from his gruesome experiment. "You seem dissatisfied. Is it my hobby, or something else?"

"Yes, it's your hobby! Cutting up dead people on the kitchen table is disgusting! Why would you do that? And also… Well, it seems like we never solved the case!"

Sherlock looked quizzical. "What do you mean? I properly deduced that these people were killed by one Moriarty's lackeys, in order to send me an invitation to join their little Freak club. An invitation which I declined. The case is finished."

Evidently, Sherlock was ready to simply dismiss the case, and its unsatisfactory ending. John, however, was definitely not. "But we never brought Moriarty to justice! He got away from you, and your brother took him, and who knows where he is now!"

"With Mycroft, obviously" answered Sherlock, with a sour face. "My brother cannot help but interfere with any case that strikes his fancy. Long has it been so."

"What's with the two of you, anyway?" John asked switching tactics. "You know, most brothers –"

Sherlock interrupted him almost angrily. "We are NOT most brothers! How do you think it is," he continued, voice lowering, face devoid of any emotion. "When your brother holds the nature of your existence over your head. To know that if you make one misstep, the secret of who you truly are will be exposed for the whole nosy world to see?

"I am a Freak, John, and Mycroft is one of the few people alive who knows it. But he has done some things in his past that could be held against him, and I am the _only _person alive who knows of them. So here we both are, each with a secret to hold over the others head, and neither of us trusting the other enough to clean the other's coat!"

"I don't think you'd let anyone clean your coat." Muttered John, under his breath. But he saw, if not fully understood, Sherlock's point, and for a moment, silence relapsed between the two.

Bending his curly head over the skinned arm, Sherlock resumed his dissection, and John sipped his tea thoughtfully. Finally, he asked: "So what does your brother want with Moriarty?"

"Oh, he won't send him to jail, or coerce him into joining his bodyguard team, if that's what you are wondering. He will… interrogate Moriarty. See if he has any valuable information. My brother believes very firmly, perhaps after seeing what my particular talent can do, that knowledge is power."

"And is it?"

Sitting still, Sherlock seemed to contemplate for a moment. Then: "Thoughts fade and even the best of minds wither, but Knowledge is immortal. And yet even knowledge is affected by death, for at death our tenuous grasp on knowledge slips, and we are left with nothing. So, yes, knowledge is powerful, but only something that withstands death unchanged can truly be termed synonymous with power."

How very poetic, John thought. Why is it the Holmes brothers tend to spout off this ridiculously deep stuff one moment, and then say horrible things the next? But aloud he said: "So is there something that can withstand death?"

"I have looked death in the face many a time…" murmured Sherlock, staring off coldly into the distance, probably thinking he was being very cryptic. But John just smirked. Obviously, Sherlock believed in a higher power; namely, himself.

"But he will let Moriarty go eventually" Sherlock said suddenly, returning to the previous subject. "And when Mycroft is done with him, I have no doubt that Moriarty will begin spreading chaos again. When he does, I will hunt him like a dog pursuing a mangy rat. And will you join me?"

Once more, John found himself at a sort of crossroads. Nearly a week ago, he had joined a strange man on an equally strange adventure, and he had thought his life was changed forever. But the adventure was over now. And he could simply leave. There was nothing now tying him to this very odd man, who was of society's potentially dangerous misfits. If he wanted, John could just take his things, and go where the wind would blow, comfortably avoiding murder, mayhem, and Freaks.

But then John remembered the feel of a gun in his hands. The thrill of the chase. That feeling of camaraderie that had for so long been absent in his life. And the knowledge that just around the corner was danger, mystery, and excitement. When he was injured in the war, he had told himself that he no longer wanted such things. But now, sitting across from a genius who also happened to be a Freak, a man whose life he had saved, John saw that without adventure in life, one wasn't really living at all.

"Yeah. I'll help you, I guess. You know, so I can help pay rent." John cleared his throat a little awkwardly, and looked down at his now-empty cup and saucer. Sherlock, however, did not seem to notice at all.

"Good." Said, Sherlock decisively, leaping up from his gruesome dissection, and adjusting his dressing gown. "I will be the Detective, and you will be the Assistant. But, in the meantime, could you perhaps run a few errands? Mrs. Hudson tells me we are low on milk."

John scowled grumpily, but in his heart he felt at home. Despite the meddling of Mycroft, and the madness of Moriarty, it would be the two of them against the rest of the world.

THE END

_**A/N: I know, hideously late. But for some reason, I was feeling absolutely terribly uninspired this week, and couldn't bring myself to write this. I hope it didn't suck too badly. But thank you for reading all the way to this, the little epilogue. I am working a bit on a sequel (and any thoughts or suggestions would be welcome), but before I begin in earnest, I will be finishing my other story, The Mother of all Crossovers. So, if anyone feels like the ending to this story was rather short and abrupt, don't worry; there will be more. Again thank you so much for all the support shown to this story; I hope it was at least somewhat enjoyable. Now, finally, may you live long and prosper.**_


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